


Race the Dawn

by tieria



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Body Horror, Developing Friendships, Multi, Plot, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-15 11:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 126,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15411708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieria/pseuds/tieria
Summary: Yusaku is a created being known as a Sentinel working with Kusanagi in order to uncover the truth about Jin’s disappearance- only to have their quest for answers go terribly wrong. Aoi is the Crown Princess of Sol and the youngest in the line of Zaizen witches, whose magic is said to have once felled a piece of heaven itself- and yet the High Council seems determined to keep her from using her power. A city full of desire, a captive god, and childhood memories forgotten. The key to it all lies with Hanoi- with the angels that have haunted them through both past and dream.(The problem is they’re fighting blind… and no one involved intends to work as a team.)





	1. Prologue [Graveyard Games]

**Author's Note:**

> [Updates daily at ~20:00 JST/GMT+9]
> 
> I've been working on this story since January, and I'm so excited to finally be able to share it!! As always thanks to C for cheerleading and some beta stuff and extra extra extra thanks to [astrobreaks](https://twitter.com/astrobreaks) for the eventual art!! (It's so good I can't wait until everyone gets to see it ahhhHHHHH)
> 
> This is VERY MUCH plotfic- while the ships are /there/ and important to the plot it's 90% gen by wordcount (if not more) and I think it'll be obvious why as the fic goes on but. we'll see. Also, this fic was written almost entirely before season 2 started airing, and largely plotted before we even got Revolver's name so. Keep that in mind while reading! I made some adjustments but such is the danger of writing longfic for ongoing properties (lol)
> 
> And with all that said, I hope you enjoy!

The military graveyard was an antiquated thing, not abandoned quite long enough to call dilapidated but not frequented enough to be properly maintained. Moss and vines crawled up the sides of crumbling gravestones whose obituaries had been packed in by dirt; a single red rose stood in a metal vase in the third row, a mark of a lonely heart from over the hills. The lowlands were a distance to travel, and mist rolled low at his ankles from the swamp where the land met ocean. It came in waves, coasting well over the head of the small dog trotting along at his heels, though she seemed not to mind.

Shoichi slipped past a skeleton of a tree, pile of decaying leaves at its base, and wove into a row of headstones upon which carved angels cried frozen tears and sported gowns of browning moss, testament to the resilience of nature disturbed. He counted as he went, multiples of three- _six, nine, twelve-_

It was so indistinct that he almost passed it, the small rounded headstone sitting suspiciously inconspicuous between two grand statues atop once-gleaming plaques.The writing on it was not immediately visible- save for three numbers, a single year listed at the bottom of the stone. A few burned-down candles sat before it, marks of the sacred flame of life gone out.

“Is this it?” he muttered, to which Misaki let out a little noise caught halfway between a bark and a growl. Propping himself on his shovel dug halfway into the earth, he leaned down. With his free hand he reached out to brush away the filth packed tight into the engraved name. It was far dirtier than the graves that surrounded it, through not nearly as weathered. One brush, two- the dirt falling away from his thumb in the shape of a ‘K, y’. Shoichi’s expression twisted into a grin, satisfaction eating him in waves of jubilant warmth. It had taken him the better part of a decade, but finally he’d found it.

A chill in the air, a sudden snap as Misaki let out a single, cut-off whine and the stench of acid sent something wild running through his bones-

“What,” asked voice low with tension, “are you doing?”

* * *

The tomb of the First King was not such a glorious sight. The small shrine built into the side of a hollowed-out hill bore but a fraction of the splendor of the pyramids far in the west, was but a drop in the ocean of graves that had followed. In a country built on foolish pride, it seemed that each ruler had deigned to outdo the relative that had come before.

Ema stood feverish at the base of the stone doors and touched a gloved finger to covered lips as she considered. Perhaps she should be kinder- this was, after all, technically her homeland. The doors swung open with a shuddering creak, bloody at their hinges. Ema glanced warily at the circuits engraved into them, seals of protection and warnings of curses like superstitious nonsense, felt the power of them vanish under the influence of her own, then stepped inside.

The inner chamber was similarly unremarkable. Coffin lay poised as centerpiece, statue of an angel with head bent and hands clasped in prayer looming over it- hardly a piece of treasure left to be found.

Ema clicked her tongue, the only sound to accompany the click of her steps through the empty room. So she’d been beaten- the thought of it left a sour taste to replace the hazy fever-thick in her throat. Fine, then. The circuits on the coffin still reeked of ancient magic, which meant there was still something left of value. She’d take her treasure, even if it meant prying it away from the First King’s grip of bones. She almost laughed at the thought. The lid was a heavy thing, even with the surface engraved as it was. Ema reached for it with a strong hand, magic sparking around her jeweled fingers, ready to slip through the circuit runes. And, just as she set her hand upon the heart of them-

The angel opened a single eye and fixed her with a piercing, teasing blue.

“You don’t,” the statue said, words sounding clear through the empty tomb despite the stone hands clasped in prayer before her mouth, “really think you can steal the great ruler’s treasure without consequence, do you?”

The statue’s eye flashed green, and Ema had but a moment to brace herself before power rushed over her unstoppable, filling her mouth with chlorine and salt.

* * *

The Order of the Angels came to him when he was but six years old. Clad in glistening white with thin, spindly wings sparsely feathered, tight expressions in their pinched faces. He thought them beautiful in their inhumanity- but what stole his breath from his lungs were the markings painted vivid, pulsing light like veins across their skin. It culminated ethereal in their left eyes, and when he looked into them, he could see his own self reflected there.

_Do you understand_

The second son, born under the twin star. A blessing upon his house, a piece of old wisdom fallen like a drop of holy water from the heavens. Half of someone’s promise, forgotten and abandoned in the tongue of the old days.

All those things were him, fragments of broken mirror cutting sharp through his young eyes as he saw.

_Do you understand_

The young boy dragged his gaze away from the eyes of the angels. And only then did he realize that the world of his mind was not a world made of fog and mist. He stood upon a chess board wherein all the pieces were white, hazy as clouds being dragged along by the spring wind promising a storm. Pure still, soon to be replaced by the dark clouds heavy with rain.

A perfect clarity. A terrifying sensation of abandonment. The whole world fell away.

 _Do you understand_ , intoned the third and final angel. And, like waking from a dream, the boy looked up and-

* * *

Misaki took fast to the stray Sentinel, standing up precariously on back paws so as to land her front ones on the edge of his chair and nudge his thigh with her nose. Though he burned with the brand of magic- like acid and pine, filling up the interior of the small, spartan cabin with his aura- Misaki was undeterred, pawing at him until his hand finally landed soft atop her head. “How old is she?”

Shoichi started at the Sentinel’s words. They were softer than they had been when Shoichi had a shovel planted at the base of a grave, but much more hollow than they had been when the weight of his magic had pressed Shoichi flat to the ground, sharper than a knife to the soft of this throat. It seemed to Shoichi that the Sentinel would much rather not have spoken at all.

He glanced over at the small fire the Sentinel had stoked in silence, counting back the years in the snaps of the wood. “Let's see… The new year is her birthday, so… twenty-eight, now?”

Misaki barked a happy assent, trying to nuzzle up higher into the Sentinel’s slack palm. She was just a little too short, and again had to settle for poking her dry nose into his fingers instead. “Dogs don’t usually live that long.”

The fire crackled warm on his side as Shoichi leaned forwards, fingers lacing together like a man contrite at the confessional. A _look_ lingered at the edges of the Sentinel’s eyes- wary, but not dangerous, not yet. It was the same expression he’d worn when Shoichi, with the taste of dirt and iron in his mouth, had lifted his head against that unearthly pressure, taken hold of the Sentinel’s magic, and _pulled_ the boy down with him.

“They don’t.”

* * *

Bright. Bustling. Beautiful, if one had a poet’s eye.

The city at the mouth of the sea was a strange thing- a bustling metropolis of traders and foreign scholars with hands poised eager for coin and knowledge both. Its residents moved about soft like shadows beside them, swept up in the routine of a city ever-changing. And somewhere, lurking in the midst of it all, the being she was assigned to uncover.

The long caw of a gull flying low over the harbor. The snap of a rope and the rush of sails as they unfurled, yellowed and frayed at the seams in their age.

 _Spectre-_ the calling card of a nameless ghost. The circuit of clover on the back of her neck burned with the reminder of her contract, tracing down her spine in a tease of the unearthly power. Ema breathed in the salted air of the ocean, and tasted only lightning and ice cracked between her teeth in the humidity before a storm. Sol was a Kingdom not a decade into what the scholars would doubtless call its Golden Age- an Enlightenment, a renaissance. Ema would love one day to sit and revel in its fineries- nevermind the fact that she was a wanted woman, in Den City.

And somewhere in this metropolis, lurking just beneath the noses of royals, were her treasures. In the temples, perhaps, their protections damaged against the demons stalking about in the night. Or in the library towers, hiding between the rings of the bell as the clock struck noon, working their magic in a melody unheard to all but those ready to tear it apart note by note. Or perhaps… Ema smiled small and traitorous, staring at the palace spires rising distant at the heart of the capital.

Well. She'd just have to find that out for herself, now wouldn't she?

* * *

The Crown Princess was enamored with books. It was of little secret that the Zaizens of Sol had amassed the knowledge of the world within their Palace, and of equally little surprise for its chosen patrons to find her weaving through the shelves, books stacked one atop the other in her arms. Biology, philosophy, the classics, the first printing of the week’s serials- there was no word that would deny her its knowledge or its narrative. And so did the people grow used to seeing their silent Princess read the day away immersed in a story of a faraway history.

But there were books that even she stole away to read under the cover of night, bought silent in back alleys with gloved hands and face covered by pearled veils. Books of a different brand, whose covers had no titles, no author’s signature penned elegant on the spine. Such things weren’t necessary. Anyone who went through the trouble of seeking them out would already know.

Necromancy. The Circuit of the Soul. Shattered scraps of Summoning Theory, written by men who knew not how to use it but dared to theorize regardless.

Those words she devoured. Tomes of black magic, scoured rune by rune in search of new information, translated once then twice over into the words of the modern day. Between the lines did she read the rituals, carve the circuit patterns into her memory- but she had yet to find her answer.

The theories she had mastered, the magic detailed within the books already traced its way through the divinity of her blood. Aoi paced through her candle lit room on the third night of the new year, books left for husks in the rucksack beneath her bed, hidden beneath piles of silk and finery. One by one her options were being exhausted, extinguished with every advance she made.

The grandfather clock in the corner of her room ticked its way steadily towards midnight, and Aoi paced the seconds away to the sounds of its rhythmic ticks and the shift of bangles around her wrists. Tonight, the next set of books.

Something restless was in the air, waiting to tilt the axis of the world back towards the hell her ancestors had carved it from- and Aoi was finding it harder and harder to shake the idea that she’d find meaning only at the mouth of the dark.

* * *

With the flash from a muzzle and the smoke on the wind did the bullet rend through Shoichi’s ribs.

“Choose,” said the masked man, “Your life? Or Jin’s?”

Shoichi staggered, clutching instinctive at the wound as his thoughts frayed apart at the edges, unravelling and turning thought to impulse and color. Images of hell, of flames, of blinding, burning red- Sensation, fast, a slip of pain that ate away at his chest before the adrenaline snapped and sunk in its teeth.

At his side Misaki snarled, fangs bared and muscles tensed to pounce, a wolfhound from a kept pet. Shoichi reached out a bloody hand to rest in the wild spikes of her fur standing on end- as much to calm her as to steady him. The softness of her fur was too much, too far away. Shoichi grit his teeth as the voice came again, echoing through his ringing ears. _Choose_.

Thoughts, words, a thousand things spinning as the world bled through its lines around him. The tang of iron was strong, so much so that he wasn’t sure if he was smelling or tasting it as his magic tore with reckless instinct towards the wandering souls haunting the Royal Cemetery, silver and cool sensation in contrast with his heated skin. The pendant around his neck pressed into his chest. Blood, fur, hollow eyes staring at him from behind a mask, strange weapon aimed steady for his head teasing the trigger-

And one name, gasped out between order and plea- “ _Yusaku!”_

* * *

Things changed, once the sun set on the city of wonder. In the daylight the crowds moved every which way, and to try and make sense of the traffic was but an exercise in futility. But beneath the stars and the allure of the full moon hanging so low in the sky, no one thought to act the same. It was easier to see the way the crowd flowed- and even easier to spot those that walked so purposefully against it.

Her bodyguard was difficult to lose; Go Onizuka much easier to find. The man was a presence, even in the waking hours; in the night he commanded attention easy as a miniature sun. His face dropped when he saw her turn the corner behind the pub, but traded her rucksack for rucksack with wordless haste. Then- “You should get back,” he said, and drew up his hood further around his face. “The streets are dangerous tonight.”

“I can handle danger,” retorted Aoi, and the spark that accompanied her words made Go chuckle. But there was a nervous air about it, an uncharacteristic aloofness that set something in Aoi’s chest skittering. Only two things could make Go lose his composure, and granted that he was out on the streets tonight, she could safely rule out one of them.

“Someone's dragging around a body half dead, asking around for things that aren't supposed to be asked about. He's got the stench of a Sentinel.”

“A Sentinel…” Aoi narrowed her eyes, opening herself to the flow of magic on the winds. It was distant, tinged with conflicting emotions running tense, but still could Aoi taste acid in her throat. It was the mark of a Sentinel that could not hide. Her lips curled into a frown, an expression caught halfway between a snarl and disdain.

Go sighed and protested, though he had to know it was useless- “You should get back, Princess. We can handle this.”

But in the set of her eyes there was only a determination rarely allowed such a spotlight. “No. If there are still Sentinels that remain, then it’s my duty to send them back to hell.”

* * *

Fujiki Yusaku did not deal well with death- not the boy, nor the Sentinel. They had made a miscalculation, that evening in the cemetery; they had come prepared, and yet-

He had known. He had known that there was a non-zero chance that what they would encounter was something far beyond human, and yet-

Misaki nipped at his ankles, yipping soft for her master whose breathing was shallow against Yusaku’s back.

“Quiet,” he hissed, staring down the shuttered streets, even the shadowdwellers flicking away instinctive at his presence. He did not like this place, with its disorderly bustle and one too many prying eyes; already he knew he had been _seen_.

Misaki growled- not the dog, but the beast of her burning soul, what the circuit had made of her after being pulled back from the grave the better part of a decade ago. It was a noise disproportionate to her size. He glanced down at her, thinking that perhaps she had sensed a danger he was drowning out with his own senses-

But her eyes were locked on something distant, something far beyond the dip of the hill where it began weaving down to the seaside.

“There?” Yusaku narrowed his eyes at the distant rise of the temple as Misaki skittered ahead on impatient paws. Left with no other choice, and with a man whose pulse was beginning to grow faint against his back, Yusaku followed.

(When they had prepared to fight an angel, Yusaku thought, they had not expected for it to resort to something so human as to use a _revolver_.)

* * *

The Altar of the Ignis was built in a temple by the sea; its violet gates stretched out far into the water, looming above the waves tall as if to welcome in the tides. Though it was a grand construction of white brick and red-tile roof, it refused to sink into the sand, to be swallowed up by the centuries of wind and water begging to erode away at its steps. _Look_ , said the tourists, the scholars, the devout alike, _proof of its holiness._

The temple doors were kept closed in near-perpetuum, protecting the eternal flame within. It opened only for the royals and their ghosts; today was no exception. Ema stood before the locked doors and uncurled her palm. Firefly magic rose from her veins in searing drops of red to flutter before its lock.

And, just as she did- a presence, faint but distinctly acidic in the way the traces of its power wafted towards her with its intent. Ema ducked behind a pillar- the magic would take its time, and the thrum of it was burning up her body. To deal with someone in this state wasn’t ideal. To deal with something greater than human was all but asking for death.

A dog yipped, then dropped low into a growl. Not a moment later did the sound of footsteps echo loud and racing from around the side of the temple, one distinctly heavier than the other. Ema peeked careful around the pillar as various magics began swirling anxious through the air, whipping up a whirlwind in the spaces between them.

A woman dressed all in white and the unmistakable silhouette of Go Onizuka stood just to her side, blocking a wolfhound dripping with black magic and a Sentinel with a dead man on his back. _A sacrifice?_ Wondered Ema, then immediately after- _Since when do we think to pay tribute to gods?_

“Is it you?” asked the veiled woman, “The demon attacking our temples? Our graves?”

Ema could not see the details of her face behind the iridescent shimmering of the pearls, but the voice rang through her with impeccable familiarity. _The Princess, running about in the night. What a golden story she’d stumbled upon_. Then, with a bit more fondness, answering silent the question the Princess had asked- _No. That would be me._

“Out of my way,” said her opposition, either not realizing or not caring who he was standing before. His magic spilled from him all at once, sharp with a desperate sort of precision, shattering the steps before the Princess in a haze of clouded stone. The Princess did not flinch, merely lifted her left hand. The sapphire bangle upon it glowed with a light unearthly blue, the color of sunlight at the bottom of a shallow ocean- then shaped itself into a shield made of fragments of heaven, glowing wide around both her and Go with that same unearthly color.

The gale of the Sentinel’s attack faded; the Princess waved her hand sharp to the side, dispelling the shield to dance as shards upon her fingertips. Not so much as a speck of dust had touched her. “You won’t,” she said, “intimidate me with obvious bluffs like that.”

Ema’s heart, for the briefest of instants, froze over cold as ice- and as blood dripped from the enchantments upon the lock, the temple doors swung open soundless and wide. She pulled herself back fast into the shadows, knowing that she’d be seen with a moment’s delay.

“What!?” The Princess’ surprise bordered almost on a shriek-

And with inhuman speed did the boy lurch past her, wolfhound following close at his heels. With a curse did Go Onizuka throw himself between them, hesitating just a half-second before giving chase. The Princess raced fast on his heels, that bangle shining sapphire on her wrist again as she crossed the temple’s threshold.

Ema pressed herself to the shadows of the temple pillars as she followed them inside, slipping through the doors just before her magic dissipated and the circuits locked once more. It seemed she’d stumbled upon no end of interesting things, since her mishap at the First King’s tomb. The Crown Princess, the Star of the Underground, a gentle opposition, his wolfhound, and a dead man all at the altar of a god who’d broken with the heavens of their birth centuries ago- _There might be value in this, too._

Ema cloaked herself in shadow, tugging her cloak through the space between the doors- and they slammed shut behind her, nothing but a shattered stair and bloody lock to prove that any of them had been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are very, VERY many sources of inspiration I took for this fic in order to try out a different kind of fantasy than I'd usually write- mostly anime/manga, but a few games and a few story songs too! Bonus points if you catch them! (One in particular even influenced the structure so extra points for that one lol)


	2. I [Wary are the Sleepless]

Fujiki Yusaku did not speak often of his past. This was largely because he did not speak often to anyone. Few came through the millenia-old graveyard at the edge of the swamp; fewer still risked the stench of acid that drenched the Sentinel’s cabin. And that suited him fine- solitude was a more than welcome companion. It meant he needed not strain against the bile in his throat, needed not try and put the truths of himself to words.

It was easier, this way, and the graveyard’s silent thanks was enough to fill the gaps. The trees marking the forest, the squelch of the ground where it turned to swamp, the wrought iron gate that blocked the way to the town below formed the boundaries of his world.  

But there was one day-

One encounter that stood out branded like a lighthouse beacon in the hazy storm of his sparse memories. He was younger, then, though by how much he couldn’t say. It was around the time of the changing seasons, where the thick humidity of summer and the torrid rains of winter began their annual war, and Yusaku (though that hadn’t been his name) had woken with the sense that someone was lurking about in his shadow.

He was not afraid, though magic jolted through the air around him, sparking in his peripherals. There were few things stronger than him, and even fewer who could best him in a fight. (And, suspected Yusaku, none that could kill him. Not truly. Not in the way of humans, who dug graves in forgotten places and carved names of existences long-forgotten into stone.)

An old vase atop a rickety wooden stool clattered to the ground across the room and shattered, spilling flower petals in purple and blue across the floorboards. Yusaku winced, but pushed himself out of bed all the same.

He’d peered outside, standing on bare toes to glance over the high sill of the window, above the wilted leaves of the potted freesia and spider lilies. There was nothing but the swirling fog, thick with the humidity heavy before a storm. And yet still could Yusaku sense the presence, different from the old woman who came with twin roses for her husband and son, different from the man who lingered at the edges of the graveyard to pray in silence, deterred by Yusaku’s presence within. Outside, the wind brushed the petals of the flowers, making them sway in red and white. Yusaku shivered, then pulled away from the window.

Cautiously Yusaku crossed the cabin silent to the door. He reached up to turn the handle, opening it just a crack, and poked his head outside. Immediately was he met with a warm burst of humid air that clung uncomfortable to his skin, cloying with the scent of the squashes at the side of the cabin beginning to decay with the end of the season. Still he saw no one.

So he stepped outside, letting the cabin door click shut behind him. The creak of the old hinges echoed loud over the muted morning, yet untouched by the fires of dawn. With not so much as a bird chirping in the trees behind the cabin, Yusaku started down the path to the graveyard. The gravel crunched uncomfortably beneath his bare feet, but it was too late to turn back now, not when the sensation of eyes on him had only grown stronger.

The path down to the graveyard was not long, and soon Yusaku found himself faced with the fork in the path- the soft slope down to the rows of graves looming in the darkness before the dawn, and the fork, the sharp turn right into the tree-lined swamp. Yusaku glanced that way, squinting into the fog rising up from the trees. The presence flinched.

Yusaku took a step closer. The presence backed away.

“Who are you?” Yusaku called, though his voice was rough with disuse and almost gave out halfway through the question. He tried again, stronger- “What do you want?”

No answer had come, but in the shadows Yusaku caught the faintest sense of movement. His eyes shot fast to it, ears caught the faintest intake of breath-

And the boy had stood there, the outline of him so distinct against the haze of mist that for a moment Yusaku thought him to be made of just shadow and light-

And then the ghost was gone, vanished into the dark from which it came.

(Yusaku didn’t think to wonder until much, much later about the most important thing- to think perhaps that boy had been an angel, a creature of vision echoed through an age of solitude.)

* * *

If the midnight air had been tense, then the pre-dawn atmosphere was suffocating as the noxious gas that had spilled from the flame set at the temple’s altar, blanketing the unnervingly still city as Go escorted the Princess back to the Palace.

“No one can know,” said the Princess, “no one can know what happened at the temple tonight.” Her words were sharp, hushed- despite her order, they’d long since lost their royal lilt. Crown Princess Zaizen Aoi had always been somewhat of a mystery to Go, what with her slinking through the night like a starving man desperate for a meal despite the feast laid out at home, but like this, he thought he could understand.

“What about the…” He didn’t finish his sentence; there was no need.

“I’ll deal with it.” Aoi’s hand curled into a fist, bunched into the black of the borrowed cloak, her face drawn far into the shadows of the hood, the tatters of her white veil pushed back behind her ear.

“If I can do anything to help, you know where to find me.” A teenager, slipping out against the order of the world and trying to make their way towards something even they weren’t fully sure they understood. If she’d only leverage the weight of her name against any other streetdweller, she’d have her hands on whatever the the underworld could turn in its grasp. And yet she never once seemed to consider it, content to trade books with Go whenever the chance arose. She never explained what it was she was seeking, either- but Go supposed that was just the way of things. Nothing was offered earnestly in the underground, when information was a currency all its own.

He met Aoi’s curious look with a serious set of his expression- not harsh enough to be uninviting, not light enough to make her think he considered her weak. Still, Aoi hesitated. Go added, a little friendlier, just a little short of teasing- “You don’t think I’m going to turn my back on you now, do you? I mean it. Status or not, I’m not turning my back on anyone in need. Not on these streets. Not when people need me to.”

Finally did Aoi’s stubbornness relent. “Thank you.”

“And,” Go added, “I found something that might interest you. It’s an old manuscript on the angels, supposedly. I can’t get it open, but figured you might have connections.”

They were approaching the Palace now, up through the steep back roads that led straight to the servant quarters just outside the gates proper. Despite it being the dead of night, candles burned low in some of the windows, spilling their illumination in patches that they tried their best to avoid. Their words stopped- not so much a natural end to the conversation as the sense that the Palace guards must be lingering just out of sight. Still, Aoi nodded her thanks. Go understood- not that he was doing it for the thanks, exactly. But it was a good feeling nonetheless.

The pedestrian staff gate was a small, unassuming thing of iron and key, without the guard stations of the main entrance. Go assumed that the patrols he saw up atop the Palace walls came to this gate as part of their routines, but a quick glance through the breaks in the bars revealed no one in sight.

Aoi started to take off his cloak, struggling with the folds of the fabric where it pooled over her shoulders, but Go shook his head. _Keep it_ , he mouthed, motioning to his bare arms in reference to her stained sleeves, her tattered veil.

She hesitated a moment, a tiny piece of conflict caught in her eyes, then nodded and turned to the gate. She reached back to pull a pin from her hair- just a simple pin of gold, adorned only with delicate butterfly wings. It glowed in gentle pink as she lifted her hand to the lock at the side of the gate. There was a pause, then a soft click. With her free hand Aoi gently grasped one of the iron bars and pulled it outwards, just enough to squeeze herself through the opening before shutting it behind her.

Go watched her slip back through the empty back gardens of the Palace grounds until a flowering tree blocked her from view, then turned his back and headed down the slope, back towards the sea.

A stone destroyed at the steps of the Temple wouldn’t go unnoticed for long, not when worshippers flocked out with the dawn to watch the tides roll in. There was little he could do about the stone itself, not with time running so short- but he could do a different type of damage control.

These streets were a bit less familiar to him- even once he’d made a name for himself a few years back, matters usually never brought him so close to the top of the hill- but the place Go was headed was a landmark, so much as landmarks could resemble shacks on a street corner.

The Den City Link Press was a modest establishment, to use generous terms. Set just off the servant’s quarters at the back of the Palace and wedged between a butcher’s on one street and a debt collector’s office on the cross, the Press’ walls looked to be no thinner than the boards of its weathered exterior.

Go glanced up and down the empty street, then knocked his fist against the door. It rattled dangerously in the frame as Go yelled up to the open window in the attic- “Oi, Frog! Pigeon! How about an interview before the morning press runs?”

From inside the Press buidling Go heard the sound of heavy feet on the steps, then muttered curses not as quiet in the predawn as they should have been.

“Who the hell-” the door opened with a grumble, revealing a portly man with eyes still bleary. “Do you know what ti- Go Onizuka! Sir! What brings you here this fine morning? Evening?” The man glanced over his shoulder with wide eyes, towards the grandfather clock Go could see ticking away next to the printing press that took up most of the room. “Morning!”

“I have a match today. How about an exclusive?” Go repeated.

Frog- whose name Go was vaguely aware of being Yamamoto, though his first name was a mystery- ran a set of very obvious mental calculations in his head before his eyes lit up and he shuffled aside, ushering Go in with a dip of his head and a flourish of his arm. “Welcome, welcome! We’d never turn down an interview with the death-defying star of Den City! Not any day! Not for any reason!”

Frog pulled over a chair from the wall, gesturing with both hands for Go to sit. He did, very carefully ignoring the way it creaked dangerously with his weight- really, he wasn’t going to complain about something as trivial as that.

“Pige! Get down here! Now!” Frog yelled up the stairs. A matching clatter came echoing loud through the ceiling, followed by the distinctive scramble of someone who’d very much just literally fallen off their mattress and was trying to get their bearings. Go tracked the sound of footsteps over the ceiling and down the stairs, and the wiry young man known as Pigeon- whose real name may or may not have been Pidge or Saito or some combination of the two- stumbled into the room, clutching a notepad, pen, and inkwell in hand.

“Yes! Ready! What’re we reporting on to- Oh. Hello, Onizuka, sir! What brings you here so early?”

Go resisted the urge to sigh- he suddenly got the certainty that this would take far longer than it should.

* * *

Aoi did not sleep. Her racing mind would not settle, and even if it did, Aoi doubted that the gentle dark would take her. But neither did she whittle the time away with her pacing of the early evening. Instead she moved with purpose about her bedroom, racing the dawn as she gathered up her conditions from their hiding places, scattered about the depths of her room.

Aster and red camellia, petals ground up into a vial of faerie dust. A white chrysanthemum, picked with nimble fingers from the garden as she’d slipped back to her rooms in a well-practiced routine. The bones of a bird, an unfortunate victim found prone in the gardens not four months back. Two diamond earrings, shaped into hearts dyed red with the blood of an unknown witch.

The touch of another’s magic, Aoi had read many a time over, was to be rejected by a witch of another lineage. The magic witches could pour into crystal and metal and poultice and bone was both their greatest asset and greatest failing as those attuned to the magic that flowed freely between this world and the next. But the magic in the twin hearts had never rejected Aoi’s blood. Silently she thanked whichever ancestor down the centuries had created them in secret, had filled them with a magic powerful enough to draw from another world.

Beside her bed Aoi set the foundations of her spell. She drew a circuit of white chalk atop slats of old plywood, pulled up from the kitchens during renovations a few years prior and stashed careful behind her dressing cabinet for the occasion.

Next came the flowers, the stem of the chrysanthemum set careful into the ribcage of the bird, wing bones set out in careful arrangement around them in the center of the circuit. With a pull of the cork and a flick of her wrist, the faerie dust sprinkled down in purple and red like maroon atop the display, glittering with the hint of potential.

And finally- Aoi thought for a moment.

She could not prick her fingers with a needle, with the tip of a knife- the bandage would be _noticed_. Even somewhere concealed from the council would be seen by her dressing maids as they helped her into kimono. She’d been gifted selections of the Zaizen heirlooms with each birthday that passed, but blood magic was yet banned to her. If Kitamura or the High Council so much as suspected she’d tried a ritual, she suspected she’d never see a moment alone again.

Still, there was one thing she could do they’d never notice. Aoi braced herself, took a bit of skin near her lip between her teeth, and bit down, tearing it away with a grimace. It wasn’t ideal- but it was better than the idea of taking a needle or a knife to the pads of her fingers, at any rate. The iron tang of blood ran over her teeth, her tongue, and she grimaced at the taste of it but hooked a finger against her cheek to press blood out of the wound all the same.

She smeared the blood on her fingers across the link markers, and felt something spark electric between her and the circuit she’d drawn, enamored with the touch of her magic. Aoi stepped back and looked at her handiwork, checking for mistakes she knew she would not find.

“Okay,” Aoi said, taking a deep breath, “Time to do this.”

The summons were written in the language of magic that had seen its birth a thousand years ago, along with the dawn of her family line. Though the language was dead, the syllables of it flowed easy off her tongue, melodic and light.

This was the feeling that she loved, the rush of her magic that seemed to lift her body weightless despite the gravity of the ceremony. If a human could fly through the air as a bird or on an angel’s wings, this is how she imagined it feeling- wild and weightless, breathless and terrifying in its possibility. If she had to compare it to an emotion… Then she’d call it _hope_.

“Link Summon!”

For a moment did her heart stop, her blood frozen solid in her veins. It was all she could do but to shut her eyes against the light of the summoning. The blue light faded quickly, and Aoi’s heart shuddered out its beats quick as she exhaled, her breath leaving her in a haze of white mist. Full of anticipation, she opened her eyes.

What her circuit had summoned were not proper angels, not in the holy sense- rather did her guardians appear like fae, like living dolls of porcelain and butterfly wings. She greeted them with familiar names, familiar faces dreamed of often in her childhood. “Holly. Bella.”

The guardians smiled and sung out a greeting in a language of instinct rather than words. They were pleased to see her, and Aoi in turn felt suddenly reassured with their presence.

“Please,” she said, and the guardians gazed upon her with kind eyes, “I need you to track down the Ignis without alerting the High Council. It’s still in this city, I can feel it. But it’s fallen into the hands of a Sentinel, and if a Sentinel has it, then…”

The two guardians exchanged a worried glance. Aoi found that she couldn’t finish her sentence. Instead she extended a hand with upturned palm. The guardians grasped gentle the tips of her fingers, their hands pinpricks of warmth on her still chilled hands. The impulse beating through her blood echoed through the guardians, and they trilled a single, matching note that sent a shiver down Aoi’s spine. “When you find it, let me know immediately.”

The fae nodded in time, then twisted elegant in the air. And then they were gone, flit through the open window and down into the quiet city below. Aoi didn’t waste time watching them go, instead gathering up the boards and the leftover ingredients, shoving them back in their hiding places as the taste of blood grew weaker.

 _Please,_ thought Aoi, _please. Find it quickly._

* * *

He remembered the Temple of the Ignis in fits and fragments, clouded with a heat haze born of his own feverish mind. The magic of it, bearing down on them relentless and overwhelming, like breathing water into straining lungs. The beauty of its old wood, pillars swaying in the storm raging away its unnatural life as it lashed at the figures scrambling to hold their ground below. The tableaus painted in bold colors across its ceiling, accented in gold and vividly remembered despite his twisted memories- the imposing figures of pale angels, descending upon the birth of the god. Awesome in the classical sense; the labor of love of an artist long dead.

The altar, a menacing thing of silver bars gleaming black in the dark light of the impossible flame held in a circuit at its center, burning without fuel a thousand years.

And the Ignis- rising from the flame as if a monster from the sea, a beast overflowing its bounds as it swallowed the spark of its birth. Shoichi remembered very little of his feelings from that night, save the lingerings of worry and pain- but he did remember terror, cutting sharp through the rest. Flames fighting for life in the corners of his vision, a match to the ache in his chest. Like candles at a summoning- a proper one to raise a dead soul.

People moved in blurs of color though his spinning vision, world thrown too-bright with the overwhelming stench of death- so thick he’d have choked, had it not been clinging to him already. White- a voice high and clear, a counterpoint to the rough yell of the black and yellow back that sheltered it from the impact of the Ignis’ thrashing limbs. A presence- overwhelming in the sheer force of it, familiar in all the wrong ways. Even fallen over the altar like a sacrifice half-dead, Shoichi could recognize it for what it must have been.

A name, slipping through his lips equal parts protective and anticipatory-

 

“You’re awake.”

Shoichi groaned and tried slowly to peel his eyelids away from his dry eyes. “Feel like the dead, though.”

He lifted his head slowly; Yusaku did not meet his gaze when he said- “You almost were.”

Shoichi felt the press of those words sharp as the pain in his stomach where the creature - _Revolver-_ had shot. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Yusaku, still not meeting his eyes. But that was just the way Yusaku was. Rather than being relieved Shoichi survived the bullet, he was probably just guilty he hadn’t been able to stop the shot in the first place. That was the kindness he’d sworn to protect in that cabin two years ago- the kindness he’d inadvertently burdened again.

“Yusaku,” he said, and the unspoken request finally made Yusaku turn his head back to Shoichi. “Whatever you did last night, you saved my life. Thank you.”

Yusaku ducked his head again, though this time Shoichi knew it was just a reaction to the praise, rather than any lingering guilt. He muttered, so quiet the creaks of the pipes in the walls almost drowned him out- “You would have done the same thing for me, if I was human.”

It wasn't a statement that needed to be answered. Still. “Of course I would. I’d do the same thing now.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Yusaku said. This time there _was_ a hint of bite in his voice.

Shoichi let the silence between them sit for a while, taking in the spartan interior of the room. He’d been laid across the bed, which, aside from a rickety old chair in which Yusaku sat and a table that seemed to double as both a bedside table and functional space, was the only feature of note in the room. The wallpaper was peeling, the green of it goes almost to pale brown with age, and the single wooden door was shut tight.

He didn’t have to say anything else; the both of them knew it was true.

Instead he changed the subject.

“What happened with the Ignis?” Shoichi asked, turning over the memory of the night only to find it cut out at the most vital part. He remembered everything from the summoning to the storm at least in some detail, but whatever happened after he’d fallen onto the altar was frustratingly blank.

“...I contained it.” Shoichi lifted an eyebrow, and Yusaku shuffled around with the rucksack hanging off the back post of the chair. He trusted Yusaku’s power as a Sentinel- he wouldn’t have suggested the summoning if he didn’t- but to fell a god was a far different task than to summon an angel.

“Here,” said Yusaku, and pulled a silver gauntlet from the bag. Even dormant, the Ignis’ form ran the border of impressive and gaudy. The gauntlet was small, enough to cover perhaps half one’s forearm, but decorated with elegant engravings and circuit runes- a symbol of status rather than practicality. But it was the centerpiece, a pearl of a translucent purple gem with a rounded circuit at its core, that was its most striking feature.  

It wasn’t what they’d spent the better part of two years planning to seize, but it was certainly something- something beyond even what they’d anticipated. Shoichi whistled, but it was thin- his chest still hurt if he inhaled too deeply. “So that’s the vessel for a god, huh? Never thought I’d see something so extravagant. It suits you though.”

Yusaku frowned, glancing down at the Ignis. “I can’t use it.”

Yusaku tried to push the Ignis towards him, but Shoichi stopped him with a raised hand, pushing the gauntlet back towards Yusaku. “Keep it. If the Ignis really is some kind of god, then you’ll have an easier time keeping it under control than me.”

“Hey! It’s rude to talk about others like they’re not here!”

Shoichi startled at the sudden voice, and the motion pulled at an ache in his abdomen, a splitting sense of pain just a notch less sharp than a blade splitting through flesh. He slapped a hand over it, certain that he was bleeding- but his hand on the bandages came away clean, at least for the time being. His next breath came out harsher, more ragged than he wanted. “What-”

“Yeah, that’s the question! Whaddaya think I am, huh? That pet dog of yours?” There was no mistake about it- the voice was emanating from the gauntlet. The gold eye sculpted just above the wrist had blinked open, and was staring straight at Kusanagi with a pupil black as the void and iris iridescent purple. The Ignis continued, either unaware or uncaring of Shoichi’s surprise, “I’m a _god_ , you know. I’ve smited people from this earth! I could eat your soul, and-”  
“And you’re too _loud_ ,” hissed Yusaku, “so shut up.”

A shocked silence hung over the room. The Ignis’ eye swiveled to face Yusaku, narrowed down to a point of black between lines of gold. “Oh. But you’re not supposed to have a soul, huh? That means I’d have to get _creative_ with you.”

“You’re just a god. You can’t do anything in that form anyway.”

“Hey, what’re you trying to-”

“Now, now,” said Shoichi, waving his hands between them to break eye contact in lieu of being able to step between them physically, “We’re all in the same boat here. Let’s all get a grasp of the situation first, before we deal with the specifics.”

“See, he gets it,” said the Ignis, though Shoichi chose to ignore it a moment.

“Which reminds me. Where are we?”

Shoichi raised his voice, let the question float too-loud through the old oak door that separated the spartan bedroom from what he presumed was the rest of the hideaway. As if on cue, it swung open on silent hinges just a moment later. It was a striking woman that stepped into the room- long hair floating free about her shoulders, posture assertive but relaxed, accentuated by the black of her clothes. She was in her domain completely, and she knew every advantage she had over her guests. Their gazes snapped to her, and she flashed a disarming smile as she lifted the tea tray in her hands. “My hideaway. I trust you won’t cause me any trouble. We all want to cling to the shadows in this city.”

“We won’t.” Shoichi promised as she crossed the room in light steps, near soundless even with her boots. The smile on her face certainly reached her eyes, but Shoichi couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t convinced. Yusaku shifted to the side as she passed by, watching her with narrowed eyes as she set the tray down on the bedside table with a soft _clink_ of the gold-laced teacups as they shifted.

“I appreciate it,” said the woman with a wink. She didn’t so much as look Yusaku’s direction, much less seem unnerved, and it won her a bit of extra respect from Shoichi. Even presuming that she and Yusaku had struck a deal last night, there were very few who’d turn their back to a Sentinel, even just one of rumor and ghost stories. “Tea?”

“Please,” said Shoichi, keenly aware of the building ache in his throat. She took the old pot in careful hands, and for a moment their silence was broken only by the soft sounds of flowing tea. She passed him the cup. It was pleasantly warm in his hands, and smelled of something vaguely floral, though he couldn’t saw exactly of what. Flowers never had been particularly relevant ingredients in his rituals.

Only then did the woman turn to Yusaku, not a trace of hesitation in her words. “How about you? I promise it’s not poisoned.”

“No thank you,” replied Yusaku. The woman shrugged, then poured a cup for herself.

Shoichi took a small sip of the tea. He still had no idea what was in it, nor what tea was the base, but it was pleasing enough to the taste, warming not only with heat but with the hint of magic. So they’d been saved by an apothecary, then.

“Can I ask your name?”

“My professional name is Ghost Girl. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?” It was phrased lightly, framed with a teasing smile, but she was clearly no fool. If they went prying into their savior later, then Shoichi knew they’d likely find nothing but the tracks of a lost soul, floating and transient from the world it resided in. “I won’t ask for yours, either.”

“Fair enough,” said Shoichi, narrowing his eyes instinctive at the name before forcing them back open. Look easy. Look unaware. Travellers might not know the stigma associated with that name, in this generation. Just the official statements by the crown, and it was already clear enough that they were likely on the same side of the law. Ghost Girl set her teacup back down on the tray with a _clink_.

“But I’m afraid I’ll have to be a terrible host and ask something else of you.” She turned to Yusaku, the look in her eyes turning scheming. “Your aura has been attracting the wrong kind of attention overnight.”

Yusaku bit out a terse response. “We’ll be gone by noon.”

“No, you can stay. Unless you can sneak out of the city in the middle of the day without alerting the Royal Guard, in which case I won’t stop you.” Yusaku glanced over at Shoichi, who could only shake his head. Just so much as shifting on the bed sent a rolling wave of nausea though him. They’d have a hard time escaping Den City unnoticed even with him well and nimble under the cover of darkness, let alone in the middle of the day with Yusaku half-dragging him down the street. The Royal Guard moved thick through the city, presumably to keep it safe from people like the three of them. It didn’t unnerve him any less.

“However…” She held out a finger in a lazy point, swept it across the room until it rested firmly on Yusaku. “You’ll have to pay me in a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” asked Yusaku, eyes narrowed. Everyone in the room knew just what kind of favors were usually asked of Sentinels. Ghost Girl might not yet have known just what lengths Shoichi was willing to fight in order to keep Yusaku from that kind of future.

Ghost Girl chuckled, as if reading their thoughts in the ice of their gazes. “Nothing scandalous, mind. Just an errand for a poor old woman. I need a few ingredients picked up, but my face isn’t exactly a welcome one at this particular shop.”

“You’re not exactly an old woman,” said Yusaku, just as Shoichi protested- “You can’t ask him to go out there in the middle of the day.”

“Older than you,” said Ghost Girl with a wink, though which one of them it was directed at, Shoichi had no idea. She pulled a small pouch of soft yellow fabric, embroidered in vibrant reds and greens. “And I have a suppression charm prepared, of course. This would hardly be the first time I’ve asked a favor like this. So what do you say? Mind repaying me?”

Shoichi caught Yusaku’s eye, but already could he see determination set into Yusaku’s shoulders, his gaze. Nothing Shoichi could say would dissuade him, so he settled back onto the bed and took a sip of tea.

“What do you need me to get?” asked Yusaku, and Ghost Girl smiled.

“I’ll make up a list. It’s quite an involved order…”


	3. II [Outsiders]

Something was scurrying in the shadows.

This was not unusual for the port capital- the ships brought rats, and the rats brought plague, and the plague left children without parents scrambling for the aid of doctors and witches alike. Go was used to the underbelly of Den City, to the dealers who did business in back alleys and black markets while turning a smile towards the royal guards in the waking hours. He knew better than he’d like the hidden rooms of upstanding teahouses, knew full well where some of the money bet on him in the ring originated.

But this wasn’t that same kind of darkness. This kind of malicious intent didn’t have the decency to stick to the evening masks and hooded transactions where neither party dared stare too long, didn’t dare to be a kid dabbling in places and things they didn’t belong. It jumped from shadow to shadow in the crowd like a fish swimming upstream, moving with a brazen sort of fluidity that oozed with the confidence that no one had noticed its presence.  

Go narrowed his eyes at it and began to follow casually behind, allowing the gentle flow of the noontime crowds to carry him along. The street was bustling with unfamiliar faces frequenting familiar shops, stalls lined up against the brick walls. The flutter of fine silks in the wind moved soft over the harsh glint of copper and gold, pinpricks of magic from witches just getting their start blessing jewelry with blood.

The feeling like a shadow continued this way a while, never stopping for more than a moment, as if considering its next move in the seconds when the crowd thinned out enough that they might be seen were they to move. Those were the times where Go concentrated his hardest- but never was he quite fast enough to pin down exactly what he was chasing.

At the side of the road, a small fae flew out from behind a vase stacked precariously atop a set of wooden-slat boxes, a flash of cornflower and pale gold. She flit around briefly, catching the eye of children and the particularly observant adult alike, before settling down on Go’s shoulder, chattering soft in a lilt whose words Go couldn’t understand.

“You noticed too, huh?” he said, the words no more than an exhale, quieter than those who only knew him from the stage would have thought possible. The fae twittered, a sort upturn of a bird-like note. _Yes, then_.

The presence made a sudden turn, falling away from Go’s awareness a moment. In the middle of the crowd he paused, and the traffic parted to leave him an island. He was no tracker by nature- indeed, it seemed as if trouble had always come to find _him_ \- but the feel of this soul was oddly distinct, just familiar enough so that even he could follow it without physical senses. With a polite murmur he pushed his way parallel into the alleyway.

No one was there, save a cat staring at him with bright amber eyes, searching for scraps of fish amongst the trash. Then, thought Go, he must be dealing with invisibility, rather than possession. The latter was already unlikely- but with the power of a god, Go couldn’t even begin to imagine what was possible. Especially not in the hands of a Sentinel, and especially not after whatever sort of blood sacrifice there had been.

The presence picked up speed, faced with the irrefutable proof it was being followed. Go matched it as it turned out of the alley, into the side street. No point in being subtle now. He’d just have to hope it didn’t bolt while still using magic that powerful.

They were nearing the plaza near the east end of the city now- not quite a rich district, but not quite poor or old enough to be considered a problem or of import. It was a favored spot of witches- ones that worked through legal means, at least. The witches who had a lineage of healing magic, whose families had brewed potions and poultices through the centuries.

Go stopped at the edge of the plaza. The presence had suddenly grown weaker, so faded that Go was having trouble sensing whether what he was tasting was truely aura or just the wavering aftertaste of something burnt on the sea breeze. He glanced around- the plaza was bustling as usual, a few carriages parked before storefronts and a few people out and about- an apothecary witch that tilted his head to Go as he passed, a group of children pointing to him with wide eyes from the steps of a snack parlor.

In the corner of his eye there was a flutter- different from the gentle swish of long fabric yukata as a woman strolled into the flower shop beside him- a little burst of color from amidst the faded petals of a potted edelweiss. Another fae poked her head out from the leaves, just a twig of a thing in a purple dress fit for a royal doll. On his shoulder the cornflower fae paused, her fingers tapping against Go’s shoulder urgently. Tiny rhythmic pinpricks, a message in morse. _A-O-I_.

“Going to call your master?” he breathed, and the purple fae nodded sharply. Go exhaled again, his lungs only half-full. He hated to drag the Princess in any more, but if she’d already gone this far, he had no right to stop her from taking charge. “Then call her. But make sure she knows I’m already here. This is my responsibility, too.”

The fae shook her head and began to trill, but Go never heard what note she would sing, because a scream from ahead broke chilling through the air, twin to the smell of smoke on the breeze.

Go’s gaze snapped towards the sound, as did everyone in the plaza- but it wasn’t here. Go muttered a half-curse under his breath and charged on, towards the billow of smoke clouding up the skyline. He shouldn’t have lost the presence- but all he could do now was make for the trouble and hope it hadn’t already slipped away.

* * *

“And where, may I ask, are you going at this time of day, Your Highness?”

Aoi stopped her hand in midair, poised to grasp the gilded handle of the garden door. She glanced at Kitamura, then placed a deliberate hand on the knob. Kitamura took a few stilted steps closer to her, and Aoi knew that he would soon begin to seethe. She’d hoped to avoid Kitamura by taking the garden door near the back of the Palace, but it seemed that this was a rare occasion her timing was off. Kitamura had emerged from one of the small, oft disused council rooms that opened into the back parlor just as she’d intended on stepping out. She could feel Bella pulling her, singing a song of urgency to her blood that made anxiety flutter in her heart.

“I plan on taking a walk outside,” said Aoi, exercising her royal bearing and lifting her chin. Kitamura was taller than her by a fair measure, but the air of a man who overestimated his importance was nothing in the face of royalty.

“You are _not_ ,” replied Kitamura. If he could get away with it, Aoi was sure that he’d be looking down his nose at her.

Aoi replied primly, “That is not a right you can deny me.”

“As Minister of Defense, it’s well within my authority to forbid people from entering or leaving the Palace grounds, I’ll-”   _I’ll have you know_ , he almost said, and Aoi’s placidity settled out into a frown. She carefully chose to ignore his near-slip, focusing on the implications of what he’d said instead.

“So there is something going on in the city.”

Kitamura made a terrible face, half caught between the narrowed eyes of anger and the wide-mouthed shout of outrage. In a better mood, Aoi would have found it comical.  As it was, Kitamura’s knowledge only doused her again in a wave of anxiety. She hadn’t been able to stop the Sentinel from taking the Ignis. Hanoi and their Sentinels hadn’t made use of an Ignis- stolen or otherwise- since they’d first emerged a thousand years ago, but Aoi remembered keenly the stories of the destruction that had followed. It was the genesis of her Kingdom, the mythos of her bloodline- there wasn’t a thing Aoi _didn’t_ know about it.

Kitamura opened his mouth again, as if to protest what he himself had given away. Aoi braced herself for the inevitable retort, but found it entirely unnecessary.

“Minister!” came a pleasant voice, accompanied by the loud clicks of wooden heels against the stone floor. Kitamura’s jaw clicked shut. He turned his back to Aoi and put on a pleasant face for the newcomer.

“Secretary Hayami. What can I do for you?”

Aoi made a face of pure disgust and hoped that Kitamura couldn’t see her out of his peripherals. Though even if he did, Aoi knew, there was very little he could do about it. On second thought, she hoped that he saw. If that ruined the rat’s day, then all the better.

“Minister Kitamura! I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a matter with the Royal Guard’s training program that needs resolution, and I’m not qualified to handle those kinds of things. As you know,” Hayami added on at the end. Anyone in passing would have thought it an afterthought, but Aoi recognized it for the backhanded kind of flattery that Kitamura would fall for in an instant.

“Yes, well,” said Kitamura, straightening up and fixing his composure, “Lead me to it then. We can’t have any issues with the Guard, or the High Council will have all our heads.”

“Wonderful,” said Hayami, sugar-sweet, and followed Kitamura just a half-pace behind as he started down the hall from which she had come. Hayami winked over her shoulder at Aoi before she took a few quick steps to pull Kitamura quite literally by the wrist, steering him towards the council rooms. Aoi returned it with a smile, small but honest. It felt, most days, that all her supposed allies within the Palace had long since deserted her, the troublemaker Princess discontent with her books. It was nice to have the reassurance that _someone_ still cared for her as a person.

As soon as Hayami and Kitamura had turned the corner, Aoi slipped out the garden door. The gardens were much as they’d been a few hours earlier- lush with flowers and hedges trimmed immaculately into shape around the flowerbeds near the Palace walls. The arrangement gradually slipped into something less regimented, though no less thought out- cherry trees out of season overlooked small ponds with stones built around them, marking the way to the teahouse on the far side of the grounds.

Aoi clipped past it briskly. She had many a fond memory of sitting on the teahouse steps, watching the rain with sweets and tea in hand and one of the weekly series smuggled in with her sleeve, but her destination today was outside- no matter how much Kitamura would scold her for it after the fact.

She couldn’t take the servants’ gate in broad daylight, so she veered towards the side- the gate at the east side was closest to the direction Bella was calling from. It was staffed as usual- a single guard standing beside the lowered drawbridge on the inside, two on the outside. A few more guards milled about inside the post itself, speaking blandly about time schedules and their shifts for the week in a conversation Aoi swore she’d heard dozens of times before.

The guard standing at the post- a guard of typical stature and perfectly pressed uniform- a suit of shining armor influenced by a country from some foreign shore and embellishments of the royal white, black hollyhock crested on the shoulder- stepped down to meet her with a deep bow. “Your Highness. Are you departing?”

“For the afternoon,” Aoi replied.

The masked guard lifted their head. “Would you like me to notify Security Chief Kitamura of your absence?”

“No need,” said Aoi, “I’ve already spoken to him personally. He’s quite busy at the moment; I suspect contacting him now would only send him into one of his moods.”

“Understood.” The guard turned back to their work after a bow of their head and not a word about Aoi’s comment- not that she had expected any. She could fault Kitamura on many a thing, but the discipline of his guard was not one of them. Aoi passed through the gates without incident, and by the rote of routine, two of the guards manning the gates flanked her intimidatingly on either side after a cursory bow.

She passed over the bridge as a carriage rattled past on the other side of the moat, the laughter of a few nobles carrying from inside. The carriage driver dipped his head as they crossed, and Aoi inclined her head slightly as Bella poked her head out from the spaces between the seat and the man’s bag.

 _Take me to them_ , thought Aoi, and Bella fluttered up high and away, skittering down the steep face of the east hill. Aoi followed her down the steep street, letting the pull of instinct guide her when Bella’s frame slipped out of view. There were no carriages that could make the climb up the hill, and there was hardly any foot traffic to stall her with pleasantries; Aoi found it a struggle not to do as she wanted and race through the streets full-sprint, to let Bella fly free through the air before her rather than clinging close to the shadows, kept far from the detection of her bodyguards. She moved with quick steps, shoes barely kept from clattering down the cobblestone street.

It wasn’t long before she found herself at the first open plaza, a plateau on the hill where buildings were once again built free standing and elegant rather than into the face of the hill. She’d hardly stepped foot into it- hardly had time to process the bows of the civilians milling about in the noontime breaks- when Bella cried out. Aoi turned her head- she had not yet travelled that far down the road from the Palace, atop the great hill that Den City had built itself into and around in turns. Further to the east, down the hill towards the docks the cry came, and Aoi hurried towards it. At the edge of the plateau the buildings gave way to let people drink in the view, and the city spread open like a map below her, a chrysanthemum blooming in its twisting roads and bursts of red-tile roofs. And, near the base of the hill-

“Is that… smoke?”

The heads of her guards swiveled in unison towards where she was looking. They paused a moment before the one to her left said, blandly, “It appears so.”

Bella flit about in the corner of Aoi’s eye, flying circles in the air, distressed but seemingly without cause. _A fire? In the city?_

Aoi knew it would be contained- it was hardly the first fire to strike Den City in its thousand-year history, and her infrastructure lessons assured her that they’d prepared for a fire even as devastating as the Great Flames of a century past- but the timing of it sent a wave of unease crashing through her.

In the Temple of the Ignis things had moved too quickly, events trampling over one another in their rush to occur- the storm, the summoning, her own thoughts just a moment too slow as the Sentinel had reached the altar and thrown the sacrifice atop it, letting the Ignis break free of its dormant bounds in the black flame.

A Sentinel had no soul- therefore, to use the magic of a god or a witch’s charm would be impossible. Aoi knew this; she’d reviewed it a thousand times over the course of her schooling, and hundreds more during her own nightly research. But if the appearance of a Sentinel was a precursor to the appearance of Hanoi… If Hanoi were again to attain an Ignis…

Aoi had no time to waste. She glanced over her shoulder to the guards keeping a respectful few paces, glanced down at the smoke, balled her hands into the long fabric of her kimono as it fell around her legs, and braced herself for all that was to come.

* * *

Ghost Girl’s pouch of lily and sage weighed heavy on his waist, as if dragging down his steps, as if pulling against the current of him. But whatever magic the witch had concocted, it seemed to be doing its job- not one head in the crowd turned to him with fear in their eyes. He kept his expression schooled, carefully blank to those whose eyes he met in passing- but there was no denying that the crowd unnerved him. The press of them was only a reminder that he did not belong. He’d reached more than a few times to pull the hood of the cloak he wasn’t wearing higher up to shadow his face. The clothes Ghost Girl had leant him covered his neck and its inhuman markings, trailed long down his arms to a set of fine gloves that concealed his body well as the charm concealed his aura.

Still, it was difficult not to feel out of place. Yusaku skittered down an alley, towards the parallel street whose crowds felt far thinner. A glance down at the map crumpled in his grip revealed it would still take him to the plaza Ghost Girl had marked.

The last street had been a market of sorts, though what order it was held to, Yusaku didn’t know. It had seemed to him all manner of magic, most of it beyond his comprehension. He held knowledge of bone rituals and scattered summonings meant to brush against the border of the worlds, but the sweetness of poultices and witch’s charms were largely beyond him.

This street was different- wider, more open. Carriages rattled up and down the wide-paved cobblestones, dodging the stationary ones with horses hitched to posts before storefronts done up in a style that Yusaku had never seen, all red-tiled roofs and painted fabric before their open doors.

The shop nearest advertised itself as an apothecary, and a bitter smell wafted out from its open door. Yusaku hurried on, ignoring a young woman who called out to him from inside. The faster he could finish Ghost Girl’s errand, the better- and it wasn’t as if he had use for such things, anyway. The street was not long, and already could Yusaku see the place where it broke for the plaza Ghost Girl had marked. He flipped the page over in his hands, to her list- scatterings of what he presumed to be medicinal powders, faerie dust, and a few things written in code- _“Just show them to the man at the counter,”_ Ghost Girl had said as he’d first read over the list, “ _He’ll know exactly what that means. It also means he should give it to you for free._ ”

Despite her reassurances, Ghost Girl had loaned him a few coins, the gold weighing heavy in his pocket. It was the only sign she’d given them that she wasn’t quite as infallible as the attitude she liked to put on.

 _Come with me, Playmaker,_ she’d said, and seized his wrist as he’d pulled Kusanagi back down from the altar where he’d fallen after staggering up the steps. He hadn’t the time to question her- only to give in and let himself be dragged along. For she’d said- _I’ll save him, but it’s now or never._

And faced with that, he’d no other choice but to comply. And she’d kept to her word, loathe as Yusaku was to trust her. Now it was time to keep to his.

Near the mouth of the plaza, Yusaku skirted wide of a hunter and his pack of wolfhounds, their noses to the air and the start of a growl in their throats. Perhaps he could fool a group of unassuming humans, with this, but he suspected animals were a different matter entirely. Their senses were keener, their instincts sharper. No animal ever trusted a Sentinel, and Yusaku wasn’t about to risk it now.

This was no fool’s errand. Ghost Girl seemed kind enough as long as one of them was of use to her. For Kusanagi’s sake, he wasn’t allowed to fail. The hunter himself didn’t seem to notice Yusaku, nor the reason for his hounds’ behavior. Even if he did, thought Yusaku, a bit of skittishness around wolfhounds and their bulk probably wasn’t uncommon for a citydweller. Especially when his were that massive.

The plaza itself was almost deserted, despite the liveliness of the streets leading to it. The shops were packed close together, small and narrow establishments that practically spilled into the next. A quick glance at the other side of the paper revealed his destination- a small shop filled with servingware and vases beside a flower shop.

Yusaku crossed the near-empty plaza quickly, catching the eye of a young woman stepping out from a restaurant as he did. She smiled at him, and Yusaku returned it awkwardly, picking up the pace towards the shop. He was beginning to feel as if there were eyes on him- a gaze boring amused into his back that couldn’t be explained away by a crowd. It was a relief when Yusaku could rest his hand on the handle of the shop, twisting the knob and opening the door to a rush of stale air.

And then, without warning- the building beside the small shop collapsed. It was not gradual, not a slow deterioration. Like the building had been cleaved from its supports, the roof crashed down in a rush of dusty air as the flames burst up through the empty space, consuming fast what still stood of the wooden frame.

There was a scream- piercing even in the settling sounds of collapse. Yusaku immediately took a step back, looking for the source. From the flames crawled a man, covered in soot and coughing horribly.

Yusaku rushed to him, intending to pull him away from the building heat, but the man seemed to have cleared the smoke from his lungs and regained his senses.

“It’s the Knights!” yelled the terrified man, scrambling back to his feet before Yusaku could so much as even lean down to help him. “The Knights are back! Hanoi has revived!”

A crowd was beginning to gather, pouring out from the shops and nearby streets, and even the way the smoke hung heavy and overpowering like incense in the air could not drive them away from the spectacle of the raving man, eyes red and watering. Yusaku tried to slink away from the press of them, but only found himself jostled further towards the man as he climbed up atop a wagon left before the burning store. “Hanoi! I’ve seen Hanoi! The angels and their monstrosities have returned! Revolver has risen from Hell! They desire the Ignis, and they will spare no woman or child to capture it!”

The crowd had gathered in a semi-circle around him, spellbound. A woman covered her mouth in horror, trying to stifle the sound of her gasp. A man clenched his fists and muttered threats under his breath, the bracelet on his wrist pulsing weakly with a witch’s blood. The raving man continued, sweeping his arms wide- “And they are among us now!”

There was a moment of pure silence- even the crackling of the fire as it threatened in on the buildings beside it seemed lost and far away, as if moving at a different pace than the world that Yusaku inhabited. His glance slipped down, away from the man. He caught the gaze of a woman across the semi-circle, lifting her shaking hand to point. “A Sentinel!”

Her shriek cast the world back into a spinning, frantic motion. All eyes snapped to him in a moment of terror as human senses caught up to the smell, the taste lingering in their mouth- _acid_.

The crowd ran from him in a cacophony of cries- for help, of prayer, or curses and witch-chants- and in the center of it all, Yusaku reached for the pouch that was no longer hanging at his waist. The rope was hardly frayed- without his notice, someone had cut away Ghost Girl’s charm. A sweep of his gaze around the plaza revealed it just a little ways off, stained with dirt as it was trampled underfoot by the sudden dispersion of the crowd.

Yusaku made an aborted move towards it, pinned firmly by the toss of a stone at his feet, shattering against the brick with an impact that surely would have broken his ankle if he hadn’t stopped. The stone had been thrown from behind him; Yusaku turned slowly towards the source, sensing the vague press of magic.

There stood the ogre of a man, skull pendant gleaming dangerous in the firelight and eyes narrowed, rolling another stone in his palm.

“Found you, Hanoi.”


	4. III [Dreams Made of Blossoms]

Aoi was not allowed in the war council. She was not allowed out of her rooms, to be specific about the order, but given that it had come from Kitamura, Aoi saw no reason she had to hold to it. She’d spent many a day confined to her rooms, and nearly as many a day sneaking around the Palace to lend an ear where none was needed. Because she was quiet, it made people seem to think often that she was deaf. Aoi was never anything but happy to prove them wrong.

There was a balcony above the council chambers. Ostensibly, this was seating for nobles and various dignitaries not immediately relevant to sit and watch the proceedings below. In reality, the balcony had been sealed off with a brick wall some years ago, the delicate rows of velvet-lined chairs left to face an expanse of nothing. The doors remained locked, sealed with a key that could only be found in the chambers of the Councilmen. Aoi knew from experience that she’d never be able to sneak in, bar one of them leaving their window open. And even then, the maids that scurried in and out of that side of the Palace had little loyalty to her. So Aoi knew she’d never be able to open the balcony doors without the magic of the hairpin she’d plucked from the display of family heirlooms when the attention of her guards had been elsewhere.

Aoi also happened to know that there was a vent up in the rafters, wide enough to fit both a maintenance worker and their tools inside, serviced by a dumbbell that connected from just outside the basement kitchens. Sneaking down was of little matter, mobile and light on her feet in her nightclothes. Pulling herself up to the top of the shaft was a bit more difficult on her already tired body, but she’d had plenty of practice over the years. She crawled careful across the beams, well aware that the council would be able to sense it if she was forced to break her fall with magic. She settled herself on a crossbeam built close enough to the wall that she could lean her back on it for balance.

Though Aoi could not see down below, the sound carried, echoed through the high ceiling of the chamber and straight through the hastily-laid brick. The High Council were not a pleasant force to be around, even on the most peaceful of days. Their voices now were strained with tension, debating fast towards a foregone conclusion.

“The citizens are in a panic! First the Sentinel runs amok in our streets, then Hanoi-”

“We force a war game, if we must.” Bishop, his voice full of authority as ever.

Knight retorted, flippant- “With what heroes? The First King will not rise from the grave to save us!”

“The Princess-”

“Is not of age to wield her power!”

“If only the former Queen-"

“We have no time for your petty reminiscing, Kitamura! Bring us a war plan, or we'll replace you with someone who will.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy as a guillotine even above Aoi’s head in the balcony. Then, Kitamura’s response, so quiet that Aoi had to press her ear against the brick and strain to hear. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The room went silent as Aoi bristled- not so much as the scrape of a chair or the tap of shoes against the ground to signify Kitamura’s departure. So they intended on making him stew. The thought was almost enough for Aoi to take pity on him. _Your Majesty? What a farce._

She waited a while longer in the rafters, but the discussions made no progress. For the time being, at least, the council was unaware of the theft of the Ignis and the depths of Aoi’s involvement beyond the incident of the afternoon.

 _I need to retrieve it_ , thought Aoi. _Before that Sentinel can take it to Hanoi. I have to get it back._

The power of the Ignis was still within the city, singing to her uneasy words with a cheerful melody, a children’s song of death before they grew to understand the concept of morbidity. Aoi gently rolled one of her earrings between her forefinger and thumb. There was still active magic in them, and the circuit was still intact behind her dresser. Something in her heart ached at the thought, but if she sent out Holly and Bella overnight, perhaps she’d have answers by morning.

Aoi sighed, soft as she could. Using so much of her magic over the events of the day had worn her down, and she could feel the early aches of fatigue settling heavy across her eyelids, dragging down her shoulders and weighing down her feet as they trailed lazily through the open air.

“Dismissed, Kitamura. Bring us a plan by morning, or there will be consequences.” Bishop’s voice again, vibrating through the brick at Aoi’s back. That was the end of it, then.

“Understood, Councilmen. Your Majesty.” The click of Kitamura’s shoes, the sound of the grand doors sweeping open and then closed again. Aoi used the opportunity to crawl back to the dumbbell shaft and slip inside, lowering herself carefully back down to the kitchen halls. This part was always the most difficult- with the shaft door closed, she’d have to rely on sound and instinct alone to tell her when it was safe to emerge- but she’d never once gotten it wrong.

She snuck back to her chambers, thankful that the halls were mostly deserted with the hour. A few scholars still lingered around the library, most having forgotten the time until the guards came to shuffle them out before they locked the doors. A few maids scurried through the halls, finishing up their evening duties, and the guards were well into their evening patrols, making circles through the halls with clockwork precision.

No one caught her- of course no one would. The Palace and its mechanical schedules kept between high walls were, after all, the majority of her world. If she couldn’t navigate that, then what right would she have to call herself a Zaizen?

* * *

A thousand years ago there rose a force- dark and all-consuming, optimistic in their aspirations and casually ruthless in their methods in the ways of men that could never understand the pain of ants. After the crumbling Kingdom they landed from the heavens in, they called themselves the Knights of Hanoi, paragons of virtue from another plane.

_Angels._

Ema knew the facts of the matter just as well as anyone who’d been born in the Kingdom of Sol- though admittedly her memory had grown a bit spotty in the time since she’d returned. It had, after all, been a very long time since she’d spoken the details aloud. Such was the force of the years, she thought with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The story was one that had become the subject of fairy tales and history books alike, a tale that belied its horrors with the sweetness of its victories. This part, suspected Ema, she’d never forget.

As the story was told: Through the heroic actions of the First King and the rebel angel who had guided him, peace was restored to the land- to the country of Sol the First King had devoted his life to serving- and who’d laid down his life to protect. At the final war game’s conclusion, the rebel angel had sobbed tears of blue- more beautiful than the ocean at the Temple’s shores, clearer than the sky the Palace towers reached out to touch- and, with the very last of her power, sealed Hanoi back into their lonely heavens. It was a gorgeous end to the story- but the course of time had yet to reach its end, and the story was yet missing pages.

For no matter how strong, such power would not last forever.

Again through the ages had the Knights risen- the second time more powerful than the first, and their leader more ruthless than the last. He was a man without a name, known only by the weapon that he carried. Not a witch’s tool, nor the holy creations of the Angels he led. A _revolver,_ six bullets to its barrel and a list of casualties written in the wounds it left behind. A weapon unlike any other. Proof, he claimed, of the destiny he wielded.

The previous time- their resurgence a hundred years past- was to be their final. Their leader had been destroyed, struck down to hell despite his claims of immortality; Ema knew this for truth. And yet again did Sentinels appear, like a herald to the Angels of their creation… But it wasn’t an Angel Ema presumed they brought in tow. Mystery upon mystery- and the desire to unravel them all sang to the sensibilities of the treasure hunter written into her soul- that and the brand on the back of her neck, warning her that time was running short.

Ema followed Playmaker from the rooftops, tracking his progress slow through the streets. He stuck carefully to those that were markedly less crowded than their parallels, cautious despite the magic Ema had bestowed upon him. So he was skittish around humans as he’d initially seemed. _How interesting._

He found his way to the plaza Ema had instructed with little trouble- not that Ema thought he would have any- and found the shop with just as quickly as everything else he’d done. She’d followed because she had wondered, thought that it was worth the risk of leaving that man and the Ignis alone in her hideaway, but perhaps...

Ema sensed it just before Playmaker pulled open the door- the smell of magic like gunpowder and smoke heavy on the air. And then the building collapsed, billowing a cloud of smoke up into the sky, forcing Ema to leap to a different rooftop or lose her visuals as the wind blew it towards her.

In the plaza below the man screamed- yelled paranoid delusions of Hanoi as the flower charm fell unnoticed to the ground. The shop behind him fell into ruin as its structure creaked into the heat of the flames. As the winds changed their direction of fortune, a lone woman raised her hand to point at Playmaker, and the mark on the back of Ema’s neck burned a reminder up into her mind, echoing in a voice of terrifying cruelty. _You haven’t yet found your treasures, have you? Time is up, dear hunter._

And yet, the tiniest of thoughts rang quiet in the back of her mind, lining up the pieces that had been spread across the board before her. _Again?_

(And then its twin, ringing soft in the echo of the first- _Already?_ )

* * *

The man that stood before Yusaku was imposing, and not only for the sheer bulk of his stature. His magic was dangerous- Yusaku could feel in the sheer force of it the suggestion of an overwhelming strength. In the pendant, too- a terrifying resonance, a feedback loop of strength upon strength.

“I’m not Hanoi,” he protested evenly. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as the already panicked crowd began to disperse, crowding in the shelter of doors and climbing aboard carriages that skittered away on twitching hooves and clattering wheels. He dared not look away fully from the man. A second’s distraction would mean an attack he wouldn’t want to take, not in a place as public as this. If he lost even a moment’s concentration- if he fell to pieces here, then everything he had been working for the past two years would all come to naught.

“But you are the Sentinel.”

Yusaku narrowed his eyes, but did not answer. _The_ Sentinel. So it was the same man as the one before the altar. He’d suspected, but the power of the Ignis had overwhelmed the magic of everyone else in the room, right until the end.

“Get him, Go!” came a small child’s yell, clutching tight to their mother’s skirts. The woman gasped and clutched her child close, trying to urge them into the shelter of the nearby alley. Go, to his credit- or foolishness, had Yusaku been perhaps anyone else- didn’t take advantage of the moment Yusaku’s attention snapped away from him.

“Come with me,” said Go, “and we’ll have the High Council settle things.”

Yusaku was no fool; he knew exactly what would be done to him if he was caught, a Sentinel in Den City. His knowledge of the world that had passed him by may have been an incomplete thing, but he’d learned very quickly what the world thought of a Sentinel’s presence among their societies. He hadn't needed a soul to tell him that.

“I can’t do that.” He kept his voice level, even. If Go was smart, then he’d back off- the number of men who had felled a Sentinel were low, and not a mortal since the times of the First King had the power to destroy one entirely.

“Then I’ll have to make you,” said Go, and without a moment to prepare the latent magic dwelling in the pendant exploded outwards, nearly blowing Yusaku back on his feet. Go took the opportunity to run, arm pulled back, ready to punch forwards. Magic gathered there, a swirling mass with a strong centerpoint.

Yusaku had only just regained his balance, caught off-guard by the power in the pendant. He’d just have to take it- Yusaku lifted his arms to guard his face and braced for the impact of the punch. And he braced- but even with all his weight digging into the ground, Yusaku couldn’t stop himself from being blown backwards, slamming hard against the wall of the shop.

Shards of brick and mortar came away with him as he pushed himself away, rolling and ducking under Go’s next punch- he could only be glad that he hadn’t flown through the window.

The move didn’t give Yusaku any reprieve- for a bulk of a man, Go was fast on his feet, pivoting with his momentum and charing at Yusaku again. His punches came one after the other, a steady left-right that effortlessly traded the pendant’s magic between them. Yusaku could only roll with them, stepping back left and right in opposite time.

Go’s rhythm faltered a moment as Yusaku stepped seamlessly over a pile of bricks, and he used that split second of dead rhythm to turn his back and propel himself forwards, out of Go’s immediate range. One step, two- Yusaku burst into a sprint.

“Stop!” Go yelled, and the sound of his boots hitting hard on the cobblestone followed Yusaku out of the plaza. By sound alone Yusaku could tell he was closer than a man had any right to be. He swerved fast into an alley, leapt up atop a half-emptied wagon and threw himself over the brick wall. Go was undeterred, crashing through the same paces as Yusaku.

Yusaku clicked his tongue and hooked a sharp right out of the other side of the alley, bolting down the street and dancing through the gaps of the crowd. _If losing him isn’t an option, then I’ll have to go somewhere he can’t follow._

* * *

Aoi was but six years old when her power manifested itself for the first time. The way witches first accessed the power resting dormant in their blood varied from line to line- some witches detailed elaborate rituals of circuits and finery, where others spoke of distant journeys to imposible lands.

For the Zaizen family, that trigger was born of dreams. They were not ones of prophecy- many a witch had claimed to read the lines of the future in the leaves of tea, in the palms of a worn and calloused hand, in the shifting of the stars- but not even the most revered name could claim to have dreamt of fate and have time prove it true. Rather, Aoi dreamt of a faraway place.

The details of it were striking, a world painted in a nostalgic pain of early spring. The climate here was warm, almost sticky on her skin, and the smell of the pink blossoms dappling the trees wafted through the air overwhelmingly sweet. If she reached out to touch the falling petals, if she curled her fist around one tight and didn’t let go, she was sure she’d wake up in the morning with one clasped tight against her pillow. Aoi breathed in deep and drowned in the sugar water taste of the graveyard.

“Why?”

The voice came sudden and soft. Aoi whirled to face it and was met with a boy- a teenager on the verge of adulthood, looking impossibly old to the still-young Aoi-  face covered in the shadow of his hooded cloak. His hands were covered in dirt where they poked out from the edges of the cloak. He stepped forwards. Aoi was powerless to move, her limbs unresponsive in the dream. He said- “Why are you here? Why couldn’t I sense you before?”

It felt suddenly as if Aoi could feel all her blood as it thrummed through her veins, feel the soft prick of it in her wrists, her neck, the very tips of her fingers. Something was wrong- something was so very, terribly wrong, though she knew not what. She opened her mouth to protest- _I’m dreaming,_ she wanted to say, _I’m dreaming, so I’m not really here_ \- but she couldn’t so much as summon the words. Her mouth clicked shut again, as if by a will other than her own.

The boy ( _Creature?_ thought Aoi, frozen in terror,) reached out a slow hand towards her. She could do nothing but stare down at the dirt collected beneath their nails, like they’d clawed their way up from one of the graves. She was sure that he would stop, was terrified of the moment his fingers would reach her chest. She wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t sure if she had to.

The very tip of his finger brushed against her chest, the frantic beat against her ribs. The boy kept going. His hand passed through her heart-

And Aoi woke up, heart stuttering in her chest. The dream was still too vivid in her memory, the words of it not yet hazy around the edges, the colors and details of it not yet blurry the way dreams were supposed to be. It tasted crisp, clear- the sugar water humidity was still lingering on her tongue. Aoi unclenched her fists- no petals between them. Carefully she turned her head to her pillow, long hair billowing over her shoulders, frizzy with morning tangles. Nothing.

For a while Aoi sat quiet in the center of her too-large bed, staring down at the silk sheets and pondering, fruitlessly, what the significance of such a dream had been. At least, she thought, it was better than a reminder of that night. Better than what her frightened mind knew no better than to show her again and again.

“Your Highness?” A young voice, accompanied by a knock- twice, then twice again, a special rhythm known only to her and one other.

“Come in,” Aoi called back, and the door opened to reveal Hayami- just a young maid of fourteen, hair tied up in a messy bun and clothes disheveled despite how perfectly she arranged Aoi’s hair and clothes every morning. She smiled, kind as ever, and came over to Aoi’s bedside. “Let’s get you ready for the day, shall we? You have an audience with the Council.”

Hayami frowned, though Aoi hardly noticed. She just nodded, and let Hayami dress her for the day. She’d have to tell the High Council about this- perhaps they’d know. It still left her unsettled, though, and so she asked- “Hayami?”

The girl hummed, and threaded a hairpin through Aoi’s long hair. “Will you read me _Blue Angel_ tonight?”

Hayami paused, then smiled at Aoi in the mirror. “Of course I will, Your Highness. I’ll look forward to it all day.”

* * *

The Sentinel was fast; Go would give him that. He slipped quick and crafty through the spaces Go couldn’t charge through, creeping through tight alleyways that exited into milling crowds. They never lasted long once they caught wind of the Sentinel, and it wasn’t without detriment for him, either- on more than one occasion did Go turn a corner to find civilians (either foolhardy or immensely brave, depending on who was doing the judging) tossing glass bottles and bricks with enough force to shatter them against the Sentinel’s back. The impacts didn’t so much as slow the Sentinel’s pace as they curled downwards to the sea.

A few times Go turned a corner only to find the Sentinel out of sight, moving silent in the gap between two shops or perched behind the flap of an old-style cargo wagon- but the stench of rot gave him away.

Each and every time Go found him, and each and every time he failed to land anything more than a glancing blow before the Sentinel darted off again. Eventually their chase lead to the pier, thick with the scent of salt and fish being dragged in by the netful from a boat just docked at port.

“You can’t escape,” Go said, approaching the Sentinel slow. He’d backed himself into a corner, caught between a set of cargo boxes ready to be loaded on the next ship off to Domino, stacked tall in the metal framework of the holding docks. He’d let the prominence of his magic fade during the chase, but he stoked it back to a blaze as he cornered the Sentinel.

“I wasn’t trying to,” said the Sentinel. The Sentinel reached out a hand, the tips of his fingers glowing, and something in the air turned bitter in response. It was a visceral feeling, like unease forming into a ball of discontent over his head, something gathering where there had been nothing just a moment before. It snapped outwards without warning. The build of it had been so sharp, Go hardly had time to prepare. He glanced up at the sound of scraping wood as the gale winds sprung to life off the sea, just in time to see the heavy wood of cargo boxes falling fast from the metal frame.

He had only a split second to react and no time to move. Go lifted his arms above his head and steeled his back, threw all the magic of the pendant into solidifying his stance, and braced for the impact.

* * *

Aoi ran.

Bella chattered fast into her ear, speaking a language not of words but of emotion. Her trills were bright and frantic, and they spoke one thing to Aoi’s instincts- _hurry, hurry_.

She broke fast from her guards, leaving the masked men scrambling to understand what had happened as she slipped into the buzzing crowds. Some recognized her as she passed, shoving her way against the crowd with a low set of her shoulders and careful placement of her steps. Most turned to watch her fleeing back, stunned by the sight of their elusive Princess in white running frantic through the streets, long cloth of her kimono pulled up around her knees and bare feet hitting hard against the uneven cobblestones.

The ones who almost stuttered out a full “Your Highness” before she passed almost made her laugh against her fears. She was sure they’d have a story to tell their loved ones tonight. _Let them talk_ , thought Aoi. The duty she was racing towards far overshadowed any whispers that might come to circulate. She would rather be known a troublemaker and a hero worthy of her name than a prim and proper coward.

Up ahead Bella curled into an open stretch of road that opened into the docks, and Aoi put on a burst of speed towards it. The freedom of the wind at her back and the empty streets before her reminded her of something- reminded her of running through the seasons, a hand in hers keeping perfect pace before stumbling with a horrible wheeze- but it was a thought lost beneath the rush of the fall towards the sea. She was almost there, almost there- Aoi burst out onto the docks to a gust of wind howling like a gale from the sea.

She dropped one side of her kimono and raised an instinctive hand to shield her face from the wind, taking in the scene before her with squinted eyes. Onizuka, standing amidst the cargo, the fall of the boxes, the split second of impulse- Aoi’s hand balled in her kimono clenched tight, and one of the amethyst and sapphire bangles sparked in response.

Above Go’s head appeared her shield, stretched in a wide circle to cover Go’s body but holding strong all the same. The boxes slammed into her shield and splintered, shattered, spilling out pottery packed in straw and fabrics floating to catch on the metal bars of the structure- but her shields held fast.

The wind cut out, and with a turn of Aoi’s wrist did the shield tilt, spilling the debris out to Onizuka’s side. It hit the ground with a series of terrible snaps and crunches, though Aoi hardly cared. She stepped forwards, up to face the Sentinel properly. “Not so fast, Hanoi.”

The Sentinel’s concentration snapped in a blink of his green eyes, the hint of something glowing behind them, reflected in the tips of his fingers vanished along with the distant howling of the winds.

“Return what you’ve stolen and you might just escape death,” Aoi said. She dropped the fabric of her kimono to let it fall flat against her legs, pulled herself up to full regal bearing. This was the legacy of her blood. This was the power she needed to prove she possessed- that she’d been trying so desperately to harness since she was six years old. Her heart beat fast with anticipation and fear, blurring fast into adrenaline the likes of which she’d never felt before.

The Sentinel met her words with a neutral expression- clearly he hadn’t anticipated her arrival, but the split-second flash of doubt she had caught in his eyes when she’d saved Go was well and truly hidden. “You can’t kill me.”

Aoi bristled with the words- he knew _nothing_ of her power; how dare he belittle her so casually- But then she remembered. Caught up in the moment, she had said whatever had come to mind- but Sentinels were not called the Immortal Soldiers without reason. A fate worse than death was the punishment that awaited the monstrosities of their creation.

“No,” she said, “but I _can_ cast you back down into hell.”

Aoi clapped her hands before her, and the ring on her right hand, a thin band of gold and etched with the image of roses- took on a soft blue glow. She pulled her hands apart, feeling a familiar weight settle in her right hand, the pull of magic as it slipped from her left and materialized into something solid.

The weight of the whip had always felt right in her hands, moreso than the other blood weapons that had been passed down through the generations. For a time in her youth Aoi had attempted to emulate her mother’s skill with the bow, but it was always the whip of the first Princess of Sol that she’d returned to. It was unconventional. A difficult weapon to master, and more difficult still to fight fluidly with. When she brought it forth, the blue thorns of it positively _sang_ with her magic.

Aoi loved it.

“I’ll give you one chance,” she said, “surrender now, and I’ll refrain from breaking you.”

The Sentinel met her with a steady look. There was no fear in his eyes, in the way his posture shifted to rest his weight on the balls of his feet as he regained his focus. The pressure that Aoi had sensed when he’d first attacked was back.

“Princess,” Go bit out, his magic flashing strong at her side.

The Sentinel lifted his hand, and Aoi knew immediately that she couldn’t let him finish the motion. She flicked her wrist forwards and the whip shot forth, striking hard at the air where the Sentinel’s hand would have fallen had he not jerked it back.

But the Sentinel hadn’t escaped harm. A flush of magic ran through the whip, bursting out as thorns from the tip of it, following the crack of it and burying themselves blue into the Sentinel’s arm. Aoi grinned as his arm fell limp to his side, the hints of orange aura disappearing entirely.

But the Sentinel was undeterred. Without so much as a grimace he pushed himself forwards.

With the tight pull of her obi and the length of her kimono Aoi was restricted. When the Sentinel came running forwards, it was Go who stepped in to intercept. He punched, but the Sentinel ducked fluidly under his arm and spun past him, making straight for Aoi.

Aoi cracked her whip, aiming to put a thorn through his neck. The Sentinel ducked neatly underneath. Aoi grit her teeth, and responding to her command more feeling than thought, Holly and Bella came rushing forth. They flew fast before the Sentinel’s face throwing up bone dust from their wings in his eyes.

The hesitation was hardly a moment, and his pace didn’t falter, but it had to be enough- Aoi lifted her left hand and raised up a shield from her bangle not a step before the Sentinel. She threw every bit of magic she had behind it, hoping he wouldn’t push through-

The Sentinel extended a hand, again bursting with pungent aura as he touched the shield-

For an electric moment, the Sentinel’s power surged against Aoi’s, sending her heart fluttering dangerous against her ribs and banishing the air from her lungs. But she wouldn’t let him-

Aoi met his resolve with every piece of her own in that one moment of truth, sending her own magic crashing against him with all the force of the gale that she’d first arrived to-

And the shield held.

The Sentinel came crashing to a halt, twisting at the last moment to let his already injured shoulder take the brunt of the impact. Aoi dropped the shield before he could use it to steady himself, and he stumbled but remained upright. His glance darted from one side to the other as Aoi took a step closer, then Go.

Go dropped himself into a fighting stance, and the Sentinel glanced over. “You don’t get a third chance.”

Aoi flicked her wrist, again aiming her whip towards the Sentinel's neck. He had been glancing towards Go, and at this distance, he wouldn’t be able to dodge so neatly. The whip sizzled with power, and she’d made no mistake as it struck true, cracked against-

The Sentinel vanished. There was simply no other word for it; one moment the Sentinel stood before them, the next there was the scent of cherry blossoms on the sea breeze and the Sentinel was gone. Aoi stood frozen as her whip struck the empty air in slow motion- she hadn’t so much as blinked. The world seemed to move slower as she tried to process what had happened, her surroundings just a little bit brighter, fading soft to white at the edges of her vision. The world was floating. She knew this feeling, knew it well as her own body. It was as if she’d been thrown into one of her lucid dreams, that scent of blossoms the trigger. But unlike her dreams it moved in a way spinning and strange, the shadows weaving and winding their way against the sun to form something that Aoi couldn’t quite see.

And in the moment before everything came crashing back down- in that moment before Go yelled a warning, before her bodyguards seized her by the wrists, Aoi had a thought. _That Sentinel. He couldn’t possibly…?_


	5. IV [Battle Lines]

There was still someone here. Go knew that he’d have to leave the scene soon- even with his salary, he couldn’t afford paying for all the goods that had been destroyed in the Sentinel’s attack- but there was still a presence lingering in the shadows. It was markedly different than the one he’d chased through the streets, though its intentions were equally unknown. Not wanting it to slip away like the strange aura from before, he made a snap decision.

“Who are you?” Go called up into the rafters, letting his magic flare at the ready again.

The voice that replied wasn’t one that he was expecting. “My name is Ghost Girl. I presume you’ve heard of me?”

Go blinked away his surprise. There wasn’t a man in the underworld who didn’t know of Ghost Girl and her exploits. Treasure hunter, witch, informant- she’d become as much an urban legend over the years as perhaps the First King as his angel were legends themselves. The fact that a decade back she’d betrayed the Zaizens, the family she was sworn through the ages by blood to, didn’t raise Go’s opinion of her any. The shadowdwellers were a troublesome bunch; his main interaction was to keep kids in the rough spots away from them. To her, he said- “I thought you were abroad?”

“I was! But I was called back on very urgent business. Things are starting to get lively in this city, aren’t they?”

“You were there,” said Go, trying to spot what shadow she was hiding in. The way her voice echoed through the empty spaces made it hard to pinpoint her, and any trace of magic that might have leaked out from her person was well and truly covered. Invisible as the ghosts she’d named herself after. “At the altar this morning. Were you after the prize too?”

“Let a girl have a few secrets,” Ghost Girl teased. Go thought he caught a hint of her silhouette high up in the framework, just a dance of her shadow in the afternoon sun. “The less you involve yourself the better.”

“You just don’t want the competition,” he accused. It was baseless, but seemed a comment confrontational enough to keep her talking. He turned slowly towards where he’d seen the shadow, up on the second layer of the structure.

Ghost Girl laughed, but the sound came from the opposite direction that he had moved to look. She spoke in a teasing tone that demanded no answer. “Is the death-defying star of Sol a thief, now?”

She wanted him to back down, but Go was far from the type to be intimidated. Even if she tried to spread that rumor, the both of them knew it wouldn’t take. There was a reason he’d been dealing in illegal books without trouble for years, now- and it wasn’t that he’d stopped to bribery. ”I’m going to protect this city. You know my reputation too, don’t you? I have people to protect here.”

“I won’t stop you,” said Ghost Girl, “but I’ll warn you against getting involved one more time. Lively nights are fun, but there’s danger in them, too. I love them, of course. But… A star should remember what he wants to protect and avoid falling in too deep.”

“Why do you care?” he asked. For a long while there was only the sounds of the sea breeze and the gulls, returned to flocking around the fishermens’ catches. Go thought, perhaps, that she’d vanished.

But then the answer came. “You’re the Princess’ friend, aren’t you, Mister Onizuka? It would be a shame if she lost someone else she was close to.”

And then she was gone. Though he’d never managed to spot her, Go knew for sure those had been her parting words. Strange ones, at that. They felt like they should have been a threat, but were delivered as nothing of the sort. While he’d never deny that he and the Princess had formed somewhat of an alliance or sorts- first over books, and now over the Sentinel roaming their streets- he’d hardly call what they had friendship. They kept the same secrets, fought a few of the same battles- but he wasn’t sure that could be called anything more than allies of circumstance. Either way, he hardly had time to think on it.

The yells of dock workers all gathering their courage to approach echoed over the pier, and Go slipped into the spaces between the cargo boxes, exiting clean on the other side where he wouldn’t be seen. The scrape of wood on his arms only sent a soft ache through them, the drop after using the magic of the pendant. Go rolled back his shoulders and started on his way as from the other side of the stacks the workers began to yell.

He still had a match tonight. Fans to appease, a salary to collect- and kids to treat to a veritable feast, at the end of it all.

* * *

_Do you understand_

The words rang in his head. Too loud, too loud- smacking hard against the empty container of his skull and fragmenting into sharp edges that dug into the rest of his thoughts, shredding them with aimless precision. Nothingness rattled through him once the thoughts dispersed. That was best. The nothingness was gentle and warm, dark against the harsh light of the world. A thought rattled through his empty head.

The nothing was best.

_Do you understand_

He understood- he understood, but how could he possibly? How could the order of things have gone so strange under the guidance of the angels? He’d thought too much. _Ah_ , his head ached with an old pain. A nostalgic pain. He wanted to clutch his head between his hands, to duck it between his knees and drop it beneath the waves and live in the safety of the calm waters below-

_Do you understand_

He couldn’t move. He didn’t know if he wanted to move. Words spoken in a voice not his own. Those feelings were not his. Those sensations blurring into smears of color red as blood never reached him. If they asked him to move, he didn’t know if he could. His body no longer felt like his own.

_Pestilence and war and famine and death and the end of it all falling upon your doorstep; for you and for you_

Why had he been there? Why had he been there, why had he been there, why had he-

_Why was he not dead?_

* * *

“Sir! These two journalists claim that they have right to press-side entrance. Call themselves Frog and Pigeon of the Den City Press?”

His manager’s call from the door startled him. The man usually knew well enough that Go preferred a bit of time alone immediately before his matches were to start, and usually kept by their unofficial rule. He turned his head from the mirror to glance back at him. His manager ducked his head. “Apologies for intruding. But they were quite insistent.”

With all that had happened since morning, Go had almost forgotten- the only way he’d been able to squeeze out of his interview with them at a reasonable time for his story to make it into the morning edition was to promise them ringside spectatorship. “No, that’s right,” Go said, “let them go to the ringside. But don’t show them in here.”

“Of course,” his manager replied, and shut the door quietly behind him as he left.

Go leaned back into his chair and tried to clear his mind. Usually he found it much easier to let the troubles of the day fall away, to ready himself for the ring and put on the proud face of a champion. His stage persona wasn’t so much of a persona as it was an idealization- the hero he’d wanted to be so desperately as a child at his lowest, and the person he liked to think he’d grown up into. It was an easy fit, and a kind one. A person the children could be proud to cheer on.

But when he closed his eyes the only images he could see were those of the day: the Ignis, a devastating force about to bring the Temple down on their heads. The Sentinel, grasping against the very flow of nature itself. The Princess, being dragged away by the wrists by the Royal Guard as a scrape on the side of her foot oozed red. And Ghost Girl’s ominous final words, like a warning he wasn’t good enough, not strong enough to protect his city.

That last one made his blood boil, at least. If he couldn’t calm himself down to play with a clear head before a match, then using his energy to whip the crowd into a frenzy was always a welcome alternative.

Go huffed. His match-

Even thinking of the match did him no good. Wrestling had become the favored sport of Sol somewhat by happenstance, but the format it had taken certainly was not. When Hanoi had first struck down from the heavens, the First King had goaded them into a game in order to spare the Kingdom’s civilians. A game of magics matched in an arena, a tournament of representatives- the defenders the First King and his sworn; the opposition a triad of angels and their Sentinels. The prize was something unmeasurable- an Ignis, a very piece of the heavens felled at the creation of their Kingdom as proof of the Zaizen magic. It was the story every child listened to spellbound, fell asleep chasing dreams of magic and angels and kings.

It had been an age since Go had become representative of the defenders, and longer still since the opposition were forced into strict roles as antagonists in the ring. But the names remained, and the traditions of the ring still derived from those old War Games. There was hardly a person remaining who’d lived to see the games a century ago, and so entertainment had become just that. Tonight was the final match- captain versus captain, victories split an even one and one. Nothing but his best showing would do, tonight. He was tired, given he hadn’t slept because of-

It was useless; Go was never going to steady his thoughts like this. He’d just have to let his blood burn and keep himself careful from too much of his magic. The purpose of these fights was never to hurt.

The knock at the door came just as he pushed his chair back with a scrape against the floor. “Ready for your match?”

Go put on a grin and chased away the ache of his tired muscles. _Nothing but the best_.

“Always ready,” he said, and followed his manager out the door. The hall from the dressing rooms to the arena was long and only sporadically lit- this was largely to keep the cost of oil lanterns down in the backstage area, given how long they burned in the main stage. The shadows were usually just that- but they didn’t sit well with Go tonight, and he found himself cracking his knuckles for punches he wouldn’t be throwing.

“Anxious?” asked his manager with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Just covering my bases,” he replied. The two of them paused in the shadows a moment as the announcer caught sight of them, his voice carrying naturally through the acoustics of the small arena. He nodded, and Go readied himself for his entrance. The musicians gathered around the walkway readied their instruments, drummers slipping from their seats to stand before mounted taiko just beside the ring. Stagehands with oil lighters slowly moved to stand beside the torches lining the walkway, waiting tense for the signal.

“And who would dare stand before the opposition? Who would risk it all for a battle of honor in the ring? Captain versus Captain, the tiebreaker match-” A moment of anticipatory silence as Go readied himself to run- “Captain of the Defenders, Hero of Sol! Goooooo Onizukaaaa!”

The torches burst into flame as the drums hit out a steady beat, rolling through the chests of the spectators in time and a half with the beating of their hearts. Go raced down the walkway with arms held high, head lifted to the crowd blurry beyond the torchlight. The crowd _roared_ , bursting into a swell that peaked without falling.

Go roared with them, slowing as he stepped into the ring through the open gate. The lights around the arena glowed the orange of the flames and whale oil blue- but everywhere there glittered gold, the audience drenched in his color.

“Go! Thanks for the invite!” yelled Frog from the press row, waving his notepad in the air above his head. He and Pigeon had managed to squeeze themselves right in the center of the row. Go nodded at them, but his gaze was headed elsewhere- a few rows up in the stands, where a line of kids stood cheering their hearts out. He could hardly hear them over the din, but he smiled and waved for them all the same. _Nothing less than the best._

His opponent for the night was already waiting there for him- a newcomer by the name of Lonely Brave. Go had seen a few of his matches before, to mostly hilarious effect, but it was the kid’s first time as Captain. He’d be fighting with everything he had, tonight. Lonely Brave’s costume was bulky, and Go thought it made to resemble the armor of the Royal Guard- or perhaps Vrains, the source of the design. Still, he swung it about without a problem, waving both arms to the crowd with an almost childish excitement.

“Then, without further ado,” said the announcer, a sentence all its own.

A handshake- a show of goodwill before the match. Something the First King had insisted on personally, if the stories were to be believed. Go met Lonely Brave at the center of the ring and extended a hand.

“Good luck,” he muttered, too low for the press beside the ring to catch it.

“My luck’s pretty good. I should be wishing you that,” replied Loney Brave, significantly louder as he reached out his own hand, ready to clap it to Go’s.

There was a flicker from the rafters- a glimmer of light so pale that Go almost thought it blue. Go’s eyes glanced to it just a moment, Loney Brave making a questioning noise as Go’s hand was slack against his-

The light came, and it did not relent. Though Go held his arms before his face, the intensity of it seared through the cracks, seemed to burn through his skin until he could feel the power of it in his bones, rattling through him counter to the beats of his heart. It blew him back, and Go felt his spine slam against one of the hard posts of the ring. It cracked as he sunk down against it, but held his weight as he struggled to catch his breath.

And then finally did the light recede. He opened his eyes to nothing but black, a series of spots bleeding into one another in his vision- frustrated did he blink away the darkness in a flutter and took in the arena, what awaited in the ring.

The torch flames had gone out, yet the arena was not dark. The world held its breath- not so much as a scream or a baby’s cry to disturb the deathly weight of the arena.

In the darkness of the ring stood five figures- four dressed dazzling in white, thinly feathered wings glimmering with gold dust at their backs. Veins crawled their way through their exposed skin, radiating a dangerous light- and at their head a single masked man, somehow the most imposing of all despite his lack of wings. He spoke his every word pointedly, with a weight to them that surpassed even royal decree. Though he did not lift his voice, it echoed loud through the arena where no one dared blink.

“We are the Knights of Hanoi! Our objective is singular. Hand over the Ignis remaining in this city or suffer the consequences of insolence. You have until midnight to acquise. We shall await your decision.”

Slowly did he lift his hand to the rafters, silver barrel glinting before his trigger finger- “And don’t,” he added, eyes gleaming gold, “think you can hide the Ignis from us again.”

He shot.

* * *

Ema slipped back into her hideout through the front door. She’d held this particular building for a while, though her travels had left her very little time to use it, so she preferred to sneak in through the back window to avoid the attention that entering from the door brought. But she was out of time to worry about such things. The street was deserted, and though she knew there would always be wandering eyes, there was no helping it; she’d simply have to take her chances.

In less than twenty-four hours every piece on the board had moved. If now wasn’t the time for action, then it was never.

She was fond of her hideout- a narrow little thing hardly worthy of the space it took up. The entrance was nothing but a hall to the left that led into the kitchen, then straight out to the back alley. The right was a staircase, the steps steep with the sharpness of the incline. Immediately she started up them, walking soundless and light on her toes to keep them from creaking and announcing her presence. Yet the back of her neck felt as it it was trying to drag the rest of her body down with it. She almost missed a step up the stairs and cursed herself as she stumbled, catching herself with a gloved palm on a step a little ways up. The steps groaned with the sudden change of weight. _Calm down, Ema_ , she chided herself, _you know better than this. You’re still one step ahead._

So she wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise, this time. That was fine. She hardly needed it.

At the top of the stairs was a single door- thin wood on old hinges, a contrast to the thick walls of the building itself. She opened the door to the bedroom and put on her sweetest smile.

The man, thankfully, was still in bed. The tea she’d given him had indeed been infused with a blend meant to heal, but that hadn’t precluded lacing it with sedatives, just for an extra bit of insurance. Perhaps she should have brought up more.

He lifted his head at Ema’s arrival, eyes clear- so either the sedative hadn’t had any effect, or he’d woken up quite a while ago. The Ignis was resting dormant on the bedside table, but Ema knew full well that they must have had a conversation in her absence. Ema’s eyes darted away, but she kept the expression in them carefully pleasant.

He greeted her with the same. She didn’t miss the way his eyes darted into the hall- looking for Yusaku, presumably. “You’re back. That was faster than I thought.”

“I do have the advantage of knowing the city. Errands always go faster when you know what you’re looking for.” Ema paused. She’d left the teapot when she’d departed, and it rested cool beside the Ignis. “Anything that I can get you? More tea, perhaps? A late lunch?”

“No thanks,” he said. “Don’t think anything else would sit well with me.”

“Shame,” said Ema pleasantly, making for the table slowly, as if to grab the teapot. “I’ll have you know I make excellent stew.”

“Huh,” he said, “so do I.”

Ema reached for the teapot, then retracted her hand and paced past it. She grabbed the chair and pulled it over to the bedside- not close enough that they could reach out and touch, but situated beside the table, next to the Ignis. She said- “I want to know your name.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t ask?” asked the man, but there was no ill will evident in his voice. “Kusanagi Shoichi.” Then, tacked on careless like an afterthought- “You won’t find anything if you go looking.”

 _Kusanagi_ \- not an oft-heard name. At least not among the traditional ones of witches, passed through the generations with reputation and renown. A few centuries ago, perhaps- but who one’s mother was in this day and age, Ema thought, was becoming less and less of a factor in determining who of what name was born with the aptitude. Not when the witches had long since struck from Vrains and its old ways and into the world to sell their flighty potions, their weapons of blood. Though what those second-generation witches were never taught, thought Ema, was the way that names- _true names_ \- held power, even if only in one’s mind.

“Do I get to ask in return?” Shoichi asked, but Ema only laughed, light and airy.

“Not until I get all of my answers. Who exactly are you, Kusanagi Shoichi? Why do you have such an interesting travelling companion? And how was he able to contain the Ignis so easily?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“And I assume that you have a lot of answers,” replied Ema with a cheeky smile. She had been aiming for charming, but given the wry look on Shoichi’s face, it seemed she’d missed the mark.

“Listen, Ghost Girl. I know your reputation. You’re pretty famous, both with witches and the black market circles. You just went and stole something that’s going to cause an uproar once it’s discovered.”

“Oh? I’ve stolen quite a few treasures, recently. You’ll have to be a little bit more specific,” she said, trying to pull the details from him. Being spotted at a heist was always a bit of trouble, even more so when she wasn’t aware of it. If it had been outside the city, then she likely had nothing to worry about- his threat was all empty air. If it was inside the city… Ema would still be fine, but she’d find her feet under coals, for a while. Not that she’d stolen anything in the first place, she thought, a little ruefully.

Shoichi refused to elaborate. Instead he said, “I also know you sell information. I’m not going to tell you anything that you won’t just turn right around and sell to the highest bidder for a pretty penny.”

“All my reputation, and you really think so little of me?” She put on her best pout. That one managed to get a bit of a reaction from Shoichi, but it wasn’t much. Just a split second of hesitation before it hardened back into a pleasant resolve. Personable, friendly. Two of a kind, the pair of them.

He shifted in bed, slightly, and the grimace he showed her as he did was a heartbeat too long to be anything but intentional. If there had been any doubt, there wasn’t now- Ema could sense his magic, a creeping and sharply powerful thing. Not overwhelming, like Onizuka’s, or ancient, like Aoi’s. Strong in his bones, but not in his being. _How strange_.

His magic made a strange leap, a jump from passive to active and back again all before Ema had finished half a breath. She knew then that whatever it was, she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. Her best chance was avoidance.

He said, “I’m not thinking little of you at all. But I won’t let you drag him into a game that isn’t his responsibility. I’ll dirty my hands a hundred times over before blood ever touches his.”

Ema reached into her pocket and flipped open a switchblade. In a flash she was up from her chair and standing next to the bed, holding the tip of the blade to his throat. “I’m really not fond of threats, you know.”

Shoichi narrowed his eyes at her, staring her up the length of her arm. She met him there steady. It wouldn’t do to give away a play of desperation. Not when she was ahead. Not when she _should have been ahead_.

“Isn’t this a little dramatic?” asked Shoichi.

Ema almost laughed, but it wouldn’t do to have her hand shake. “You have magic. I’m not exactly holding a blade to a puppy’s throat.”

Shoichi was unperturbed. “Which reminds me. Where’s Misaki?”

“No clue. It was the Sentinel and you on his back that approached me. No one else. If I had to guess? The Ignis might have been hungry. We have fables about the appetites of gods for a reason, I presume. _And the winds trapped the monsters as the flame swallowed them whole..._ Or maybe that story isn't told any longer? It's a little old.”

"Very."

Ema and Shoichi stared each other down. Even with a blade open between them the mood had yet to break from tension- the pleasantries of their tones were cracked and strained as the atmosphere that surrounded them. They hadn’t yet quite exposed the sides of themselves they were so reluctant to show others. Kusanagi Shoichi, with his flattering reassurance hiding the stench of death carved into his bones. She’d been worried about Playmaker, but he was just a young thing, unused to the ways in which the world had moved on without him. The man who’d brushed death and come away unscathed, who willingly kept the company of something so inhuman… Either he was insane, or it was a very, very good thing for Ema’s plans that he had been unconscious for what had transpired.

She didn’t know.

(She didn’t _know_ , and that was the most worrying of all.)


	6. V [Two Years' Scheming]

It was two years ago that Kusanagi Shoichi had stumbled into the graveyard of a Sentinel, searching out a grave marked with the name of a woman that had died a millennia ago. Her epitaph was eroded but not gone, and once he’d scraped the dirt from the engravings he read-

 _Taki Kyoko_ , _dead by the plague. Mother to none but soldier beloved by all._

Shoichi wasn’t sure how much of that he believed, given the circumstances. He figured he’d give the woman benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t as if he’d known her, after all.

He’d gathered up the story of a life- or at least what remained- in the form of the old tomes he traded in, ink faded with the centuries and pages yellowed and eaten through by the rats. Taki Kyoko had been a noble- the foremost woman of Hanoi after the death of their Queen. An alchemist, by all accounts, never married but close enough to the young Prince to be his sister. Mother, perhaps. There was more he’d dug up over the years- supposedly she had a love of books and the sciences, supposedly she was quite the teacher- but what of it was fantasy made up through the centuries and what of it was fact, Shoichi couldn’t say.

But he was finally sure of her grave, the final resting place of a woman that hadn’t died.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered. The shovel in his hands felt heavy with the weight of what he was about to do- but he had no other choice except to commit. With an exhale he drove the shovel down into the hard earth, breaking through a clump of patchy grass with the scrape of metal against stone.

Behind him, Misaki began to growl. He didn’t have so much as a moment to turn before he was slammed to the ground, missing by the skin of his teeth smashing the edge of his face on the edge of his shovel. Misaki’s growl turned to a full-body snarl. “What,” asked a voice low with tension, “are you doing?”

Shoichi had only narrowly avoided slamming his jaw against the ground as he’d tried to avoid the shovel. He grit his teeth in lieu of responding, hoping that silence would buy him the time he needed. The weight of the magic on his back was almost wild at its edges, thrashing around its center point despite being a stationary spell. That made it all the easier to grasp hold of that centerpoint and tug at it hard, inverting it rough and letting the recoil fly outwards, back towards its master.

Beside him there was a matching thump, and with a twist of his head, Shoichi’s eyes met that of his attacker’s. They were green, bright and sparking with a life that must have surprised anyone who got close enough to make eye contact.

“How did you do that?” hissed the Sentinel, straining against the bonds of his own magic that had turned unresponsive to his commands.

Shoichi grinned, propping himself on his elbows and pushing off the pressure the Sentinel had slammed him to the ground with. It took a few mental nudges, but once he’d unraveled the centerpoint of the magic, it all fell fluid as water off his back. “I’m not your usual witch.”

“I understand that,” the Sentinel replied. Then, trying to drop his voice into an order, he continued, “Let me up.”

Shoichi straightened up and settled into a crouch before the Sentinel. He looked young, but Shoichi knew better than most that the physical appearance of any sort of undead was nothing but an unintentional deceit. With a smile down at him, not unkindly he said- “If I let you up, you’re just going to attack me again, right?”

The Sentinel huffed, though Shoichi knew full well that he didn’t need to breathe. It seemed that was all the response he was getting. Misaki’s form settled back down, the edges of _wolf_ blurring her form returning firmly to the solidity of _dog_. She trotted over to the prone Sentinel, and, without hesitation, started to sniff his ear.

The Sentinel made a face- bewildered, open. Shoichi felt the strain clear as day against his reversed magic as the Sentinel tried to lift a hand to shoo her away. Shoichi almost laughed. Instead he pulled Misaki back by the scruff and asked, “What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then I’ll give you one.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Shoichi’s turn to huff. “Then what am I supposed to call you? ‘Sentinel’?

“That suits everyone else fine.” The Sentinel hadn’t changed his tone, but if Shoichi had to guess, he was just being petulant now. He kept straining against the magic, pressing it for a weak point, but the aura of urgency and malice was all but disappeared.

“I’ll decide on one for you.” Shoichi glanced around a moment, at the graveyard blooming in vibrant blues and purples from hanging trellises like a garden, then at the graves.

“I don’t need it.”

Shoichi laughed. “You’re a real gracious kid, you know that?”

The Sentinel said nothing, but gave a particularly hard mental shove at that, a cold brush against the flame of Shoichi’s soul. Shoichi doubled down the magic with a bit of thought, and the Sentinel let out a fast breath as the air was pushed from his lungs. He glared. Shoichi mostly ignored it.

“If I let you up, are you going to try and attack me again? Or will you hear me out?” At his words the Sentinel glared, but Shoichi kept eye contact steady and calm. He could keep waiting for the answer however long it took to get one he liked. The both of them were aware of that, by now.

“Fine,” said the Sentinel, “I’ll hear you out.”

 

The town was a strange change of pace from the graveyard- namely in the sense that it seemed too small a thing to have needed so many graves. But there had once been a castle, Shoichi had learned, perched high up on the hill above the swamp. It had burned the last time Hanoi had made off with an Ignis- the castle and half the hill scoured away with it. Though the forest had long since regrown to a thriving thing, prosperity had forsaken the little town that day centuries past, and nowhere was it more evident than in the crumbling stone remnants of the ramparts Shoichi passed through from the forest to enter.

It was hardly a modern place; each building had been built freestanding of clay brick that was beginning to show its age. If an earthquake were to strike here, Shoichi thought, then nothing would remain.

The front rooms of most homes were the nicest, and Shoichi found out quickly that most of them doubled as storefronts- if a few families opening their dirt-floored front rooms to sell food and goods to the occasional traveler could be called ‘storefronts’. But they were the only places Shoichi could replenish his supplies without resorting to hunting in the forest or crossing back through the swamp to the last town on the other side of the border, so he made do.

What he needed now were wooden boards to chalk a few prototype circuits onto. Given that the wooden doors on each house was the nicest (and newest) part on each of them, he assumed he’d have luck.

“You looking for something?” called an old voice from one of the homes, and Shoichi nodded- though he couldn’t see whoever had asked through the open door, the same obviously wasn’t true in return.

“Yeah,” he called back, “a couple of boards? Going to be staying here a while, so want to get something over my head when I sleep, if I can.”

A loud grunt, then a sweep of the sliding door fully aside. The blue fabric fluttered tattered before the entranceway. “Well, come on in then. Been sanding down the trees for years, now.”

Shoichi stepped up the dirt walk and swept the fabric to the side, ducking down through the low door.

“Oh,” said the old man, stooped but not fragile by any means, “you’re the one out camping in that swamp, aren’t you?”

“Yes?” Shoichi replied, unsure how to take his tone. He was gruff seemingly by nature, an outdoorsman and a fighter turned to running shop in his old age. And it was a pleasant little shop, if not slightly cramped, packed to the brim with tools meant either to build or to keep one alive out in the far countryside.

“Watch your step. Dunno whatever witchery you’ve got going on out there, and I don’t want to. But there’s something holy out in the graveyard, and it sure as hell isn’t an angel.”

“I will.” Shoichi very pointedly pretended to be engrossed in a selection of hammers he didn’t need. The last thing he needed were the townspeople discovering he and the Sentinel were already well-acquainted. This was the town that had produced the traitor to the False Prophet, in all the old accounts he’d managed to find. The last thing he needed now was a knife in his back.

“‘Aint gonna be able to bury a soul in there from now on. Had to build a new one on the other side of town,” the man muttered, mostly to himself. “Can’t even bury me with the family, ‘less that damn thing gets out. A thousand years worth of history, and can’t even get close.”

“Grandfather,” admonished a young woman who looked like the years would never accumulate on her, “don’t go saying things like that. What if it hears you? Angels won’t be merciful.”

The old man snorted and turned his back to go count coin at the counter. The young woman stepped daintily inside, then came over to try and help Shoichi pull the boards from the stack of them propped against the far wall with her free hand.

He waved her off with a smile- _don’t worry, I have them_ \- then tucked them awkwardly under his arm and tried not to knock anything over with the length of them in the crowded shop. His silver coin was met with particularly warm reception as it changed hands, and the gruff man only hesitated a second before he took it.

“Here,” said the young woman, handing him a box wrapped in a worn cloth, “take this, too.”

Shoichi tried to refuse with a wave of his free hand. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“If you’ll be staying a while, it’s only polite,” she said, and all but shoved the box at him. But as he took it, as their hands brushed, the woman seemed to consider him again. “You… aren’t…”

Shoichi grinned, and hoped none of the unease he felt sept through the cracks of his teeth. “Nope. But I tend to get that, living out in the woods. The only corpses I see are the ones of dinner. All the bones get reused for spells, of course. Couldn’t go and waste a life like that.”

The young woman lifted a hand to her mouth, looking immediately abashed. “Oh, a witch. Oh, of course. I’m terribly sorry. Please, consider that an apology, too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shoichi said, hand curling tight into the fabric tied in a knot atop the box, “Really.”

He started out the door like that, convinced the conversation was over and wanting to spare that poor girl a bit of embarrassment for her mistake that hadn’t been a mistake at all.

“Be careful who you tell you’re a witch ‘round here,” called the old man, “not everyone’s so friendly to descendents of Vrains in these parts. Hanoi blood still runs strong around here.”

Shoichi blinked, almost turned on his heel- but settled for swiveling his head over his shoulder, instead. For a town under the rule of the Zaizens to hold animosity towards witches… In any other country, Shoichi wouldn’t have thought it so strange. “Was there an accident?”

“Bah,” the old man shook his head, snapped it just once to the side. “Hardly. I wasn’t even born when the last witch came through here. Some folks just don’t know where they live, is all. Paranoid with that hellspawn at the edge of town. Think all magic’s the work of some devil. Talk about red vines and madness and all sorts of curses and superstition. Fools, all of ‘em. There’s only one devil here, and they’re all too coward to even catch a glimpse of it.”

Shoichi just chuckled, a little uneasy. So did the young woman, though a scandalized gasp of _grandfather_ came after hers. He said, “I guess that makes me a coward, too. Thanks again for the supplies and the food.”

And then he slipped out of the shop, out of the town, and into the woods- back along the trail that would loop him into the back entrance of the cemetery. It did make him a coward, he thought- just not in the same way they thought.

 

“You’re a gravekeeper.”

Misaki pawed at the Sentinel’s leg again, begging to be let up on his lap. The Sentinel didn’t seem to notice, his hand still paused over her head. His eyes were sharp with the realization. Shoichi was just surprised the Sentinel hadn’t figured it out sooner.

“You know,” replied Shoichi, “I always thought that name was a little weird, for what I do. I’m not so much _keeping_ graves as I am taking things from them.”

“Like bones from a coffin.”

“There’s a reason behind that,” he said, but the Sentinel didn’t allow him the time to explain.

“So you know about Sentinels. About how they’re created.”

Shoichi turned his grimace into a hum. It was a softer denial. “Only angels know that.”

“But you must have an idea. If you could turn my power against me like that, you must know how it works.”

Shoichi relented as a log fell hard into the flames, throwing up cinders and a wave of heat. “Some. It’s an unknown art for a reason. In theory it’s similar to raising the dead, but a reverse process. I pull the soul from the grave and build it a body. Mostly magic, some bone and blood if you want it to last.” He let out a long breath, but the impassive stare of the Sentinel meant he already knew the rest. “To build a Sentinel, it’s the opposite. You perform some sort of alchemy on the body, and some sort of consciousness follows.”

“That’s all you know?” The Sentinel hardly seemed to believe it. Shoichi couldn’t blame him- Vrains born-and-raised witch or not, he doubted there were many who’d managed enough research into Sentinels to stand against one, let along reverse the flow of their magic. But.

“That really is all I know.”

For a while there was only the crackle of the fire as the Sentinel thought it over. Shoichi forced himself to breathe evenly, to try and relax- this wasn’t a situation he wanted to turn back into a fight.

“Why?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it. The reason he’d struck from Vrains as a makeshift merchant, the reason he’d spent so much of his life into studying the art of gravekeeping born from the untouchables, the reason he was here, now, trying to dig up the grave of a woman a millenia dead-

Shoichi reached up to grab the silver tag around his neck. “My brother. I’m doing this for my brother.”

“He’s dead?” If Shoichi expected the Sentinel to approach this with tact, he was sorely disappointed. He flinched, slightly, and though it didn’t escape the Sentinel’s notice, neither of them pointed it out. Misaki finally grew tired of being ignored and yipped, nose and teeth brushing against the Sentinel’s fingers as she hopped on stubby back paws. The Sentinel stared down at her, then bent down to scoop her up into his lap. She half-spilled out of his arms but didn’t seem to mind, settling down into a half curl and huffing as she made herself comfortable.

Knowing he’d used his momentary reprive, Shoichi replied, “Missing. But not dead. If he was dead, I would have been able to…”

“To pull his soul back. If he’s alive, then why are you digging up graves?”

“My turn to ask a question.” The warmth of the fire was getting to be too much on his side. He didn’t dare to shift as the Sentinel narrowed his eyes, disliking the conversation seized from his control. “How much do you know about the angels who call themselves the Knights of Hanoi?”

 

There was a small kitchen in the shack of the groundskeeper- nothing more than a fireplace and a small pit for a tea kettle, but Shoichi had worked with far less, over the years. He’d savor this while it was still his base of operations. The smell of acid permeated through the walls- he had no idea how long the Sentinel had lived there, but it was long enough that Shoichi could feel the gentle sweep of lingering magic over the doorstep. No matter how much he aired it out, he doubted it would fade.

Still. Shoichi knew he smelled of death himself, most days. It hardly bothered him.

In the late spring there was still a humid chill to the air, perpetuated by their proximity to the wide swamp. It clung to their skin with a sticky sort of clamminess that Shoichi was rapidly discovering felt like the dead. Days like this, Shoichi always thought, it was best to make stew. Rabbit meat and carrots as the base, then- as much as he loathed the thought of killing animals, bones were just as necessary to his research as circuits. He’d wish them better in their next life.

Shoichi was nearly done with dinner when the cabin door opened, swinging on its rusty hinge. After a belated moment, the Sentinel muttered a greeting. He paused in the entryway; Shoichi turned his head to look. By the looks of things- the dirt on his hands, smeared in a streak across his cheek- the Sentinel had been doing what Shoichi discovered he did most days- keep up the gardens, and keep the plants from swallowing up the graves.

“The smell,” the Sentinel said, but refused to elaborate further. When Shoichi cooked, he tended towards the savory- just simple things, but he’d had enough practice since he set out that he could say with confidence they tasted as good as they smelled.

“Good, right?” said Shoichi, and ladelled a generous portion into one of the earthenware bowls he’d picked up in town. He held it out to the Sentinel, who approached but didn’t reach out for it. “Eat it.”

“I don’t need it,” the Sentinel protested, looking down blankly as Shoichi hooked a spoon over the side. Shoichi waved the bowl at him gently, enough to make it clear that this wasn’t something he’d let the Sentinel refuse without spilling it over his hand.

“But you can still taste it, can’t you? Take it. I’m not eating all of this myself, and it’s going to go bad in the heat.”

The Sentinel huffed, but reached out to accept it all the same. The other chair was across the other end of the fireplace. After a moment of thought, in which Shoichi ladled a bowl out for himself- his usual, the travelling bowl he’d struck out from Vrains with- the Sentinel sat down there.

Shoichi watched him out of the corner of his eye, pretending to chase down a last piece of meat from the pot over the fire. He picked up the spoon, slowly, then dug a piece of carrot and onion half-hanging off the edge of the spoon from the broth. The Sentinel considered it a moment with something almost like apprehension- and Shoichi had to stifle a chuckle, at that- then took the plunge and ate it.

He chewed once, then twice. Shoichi was staring, now, but it seemed the Sentinel didn’t mind.

As he swallowed, his eyes shone with something bright- something painfully innocent. A hint of joy, the surprise of unexpected delight. He looked not like an immortal soldier, but like a kid- just a regular kid, discovering a new food they liked for the first time.

A strange, soft pity almost like pain ran through him then. He asked, “You’ve… eaten before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, at once point. I just don’t remember it well. It wasn't this,” the Sentinel replied after a long pause, disguised with another bite of stew. To Shoichi, that only sounded like he didn’t want to admit he hadn’t.

A Sentinel. A tool of war created by the angels to enact their judgement upon the mortal realm. A kid who gardened and kept up family graves whose last descendant had long since joined them in the ground, whose eyes lit up when he tried food for the first time, who was holding a spoonful of meat down to an ecstatic Misaki now-

“Fujiki,” Shoichi said, and the Sentinel tilted his head, an unspoken question as he lifted the bowl to his lips to sip the broth while his spoon was otherwise occupied. Shoichi took a last thought to confirm it, to roll the syllables through his mind, then nodded. “Fujiki Yusaku. That’s your name.”

The Sentinel- Yusaku- swallowed. He licked the hint of broth from his lips, then said- “I told you I didn’t need one.”

“I’m giving you one anyway,” Shoichi said, “I told you I wasn’t going to keep calling you ‘Sentinel’ or something. It’s been long enough. Unless you hate it, that’s what you’re getting stuck with. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Shoichi grinned, though he realized at the last second that his choice of words had been less than ideal.

“Fujiki... Yusaku. It’s not awful, at least.”

Or so he said, but there was that glimmer in Yusaku’s eyes again- a pure happiness in the simplest of ways. The unexpected sweetness of receiving something he hadn’t known he’d wanted. Yusaku held out his bowl. “More, please.”

Or Yusaku just wanted more food out of him, Shoichi thought with a huff. That was possible, too.

“Slow down, it’ll be here,” he said anyway, and labelled a generous portion into Yusaku’s bowl.

(But even if that’s all it was, Shoichi thought, that would be fine.)

 

The town was abuzz. Frankly, Shoichi hadn’t thought so many people lived here- and the single dirt road in and out of town was packed with adults and children and the elderly alike. Music- the sweet melody of a pipe flute and a the chipper beat of cheap drums- echoed down through the town, and people were drunk on their laughter as they danced- or in more than one case, Shoichi found as he slipped around the outskirts, just plain drunk. Someone across the street pulled a fiddle from its case, and everyone around him burst into cheers.

In the center of it all was a stack of firewood, thinly but crudely cut. They were the preparations for a bonfire. Shoichi tried to count the days, but found that he’d lost track of both the day and the month and gave up. He assumed that holidays between Vrains and Sol were likely different as it seemed their festival preparations were, anyway.

“What’s going on?” he asked, pushing careful through the last of the crowd to his usual destination. His last attempt at a circuit had set the boards on fire, again, which was becoming a disturbingly common result. At this rate, he’d be better off cutting them into one of the empty garden patches outside the cabin.

The old man scowled before Shoichi had so much as finished his question. “Shoulda told you not to show your face in town, today.”

Shoichi’s stomach started to sink. He could only think of one reason for that. He lowered his voice. “Am I about to find out the reason this town isn’t so fond of witches?”

“No,” said the man, ushering Shoichi inside with a flutter of fabric and the sharp snap of the sliding door. “You’re going to get whatever the hell you need those boards for and then leave before some drunken idiot puts two and two together and decides they want to burn you alive, too.”

Shoichi grimaced. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” said the man, “That’s literal, kid. Some of the youngblood ‘round these parts get a little too excited about burning that effigy. If they can’t burn that Sentinel, then they’ll pretend to kill a witch that wronged their grandad’s dad… Shit like that.”

Shoichi grabbed a few boards from the back of the store. He already had the coin weighing against his hand, but the old man just shook his head and waved Shoichi towards the back of the shop- towards the small inner yard that separated each part of the house from the other. “Today? Don’t need it. Take the back door out, and don’t come back for another week. And wherever you are out in that swamp? Get farther away. You smell like death.”

Shoichi stepped out the door, and it was slammed behind him before he could say so much as a word of thanks. With a long sigh he shuffled the boards in his arms and pocketed his extra coin, then struck out around the side of the house, into the woods.

He’d known an old hunter wouldn’t begrudge him death of necessity- but it seemed the game was up. Vrains-born witch or not, no one wanted to deal with a man whose job was handling corpses.

 

Shoichi woke that night to the sound of a commotion outside the shack. Immediately he reached out with his magic, searching for the source, and grasping for the now-familiar flow of Yusaku’s magic as it snaked through the air- but he was met with nothing. Not even Misaki.

Shoichi bolted upright, throwing off the blanket he’d scavenged up and losing it in the darkness as his eyes adjusted. What carried to him were the sounds of yells, mostly- some more drunken than others, but the edge of each of them was vicious.

The faint flickering of torchlight caught on the window, and Shoichi bolted upright, not even stopping to pull on his boots before he ran out the door.

He’d barely made it around the corner when the wind blew sudden, forcing him back against the side of the shed with enough force to rattle the frame of it and push the air from his lungs. Though the wind died, the pressure remained. A clear warning, with an even clearer owner. Shoichi pushed against it a bit, trying to crane his neck to see past the tree at the side of the cabin- though it would have done him little good in the dark, anyway. The pressure only doubled down, the faintest of feelings pulsing its way through- _trust me, trust me_.

Though his instincts screamed at him from the very depths of his bones to move, he forced himself to stay put, to not pick apart the magic Yusaku was so desperately trying to keep him hidden with.

The clamor continued a moment, a blur of indistinguishable sound and yelling. Then a pause. One voice rose above the rest. “What the hell was everyone so afraid of, huh? The Sentinel’s some little weakling kid! He’s not magic, he’s like some _corpse_.”

Cheers, jeers, a cavalcade of laughter. Below that: a snarl, deep and familiar. Disproportionate to the figure it came from.

“What the hell? Stupid dog-”

There was a sound- quiet, beneath the clamor of the crowd. Two sounds, really- an impact, and a whimper. The silence that followed it was immediate and all-consuming. Not even a bug dared sing into the night.

“Oh shit,” someone whispered, and it carried to Shoichi before the roar of the wind stole it away. The whirl of it was relentless, all-consuming in the single moment it held itself together. The torchlight vanished in a gasp, leaving the spotty moonlight to shine down in its absence. The wind howled, a wolf-scream into the sudden emptiness. For a moment the wind seemed to shine, holding light brighter than even the stars-

And then it was gone. All of it, stilled.

Shoichi couldn’t so much as breathe, as count the moments.

But all at once there came a scramble- boots and the clatter of falling metal on earth, and cries not quite screams but not quite sobs. Only once the sounds of the drunken group staggering back to town had well and truly faded into the near-silence of the countryside night did Shoichi dare unravel the pressure Yusaku had set upon him. There was no resistance.

Shoichi raced down the path, ignoring the way the gravel dug into his bare feet. He didn’t have words for what he saw. Just one, the name falling from him helpless. “Yusaku-”

“I’m fine.”

Shoichi dropped down to his knees at Yusaku’s side, shoving away a blunt and rusted sword, a misplaced relic of some old crone’s glory days. “Yusaku, you’re-”

“ _I’m fine_.” Yusaku spoke with such harshness, for a moment Shoichi was stunned. His hands hovered uselessly over Yusaku as the boy shifted on one elbow, pushed himself away. Up close, Shoichi wasn’t spared the extent of the wounds. Yusaku had been slashed at- the worn old shirt of Shoichi’s he’d been borrowing for the night had been cut half a dozen times, though at least none of the cuts looked particularly deep, save a jagged stab beneath his ribs, one of them gleaming white under the moon. His legs had been pinned to the ground with some soft of metal stake- Shoichi grit his teeth and readied himself to pull them out. Yusaku certainly wouldn't be able to do it himself. Not with one arm broken to shards of bone and hardened flesh, scattered amongst the remains of a shattered stone.

“I’m not human,” Yusaku said, and grabbed at the fragments of his shattered arm with his functional hand. Even that one was in bad shape- if Shoichi had to guess, someone had immobilized that in preparation to slam a stake through it. Slowly it was returning to form, but it looked elongated, flat- like someone had smashed it with a hammer or stone. Yusaku twitched his fingers, and something in them cracked with a series of grating snaps.

Shoichi was used to carving down bones, whittling them away for rituals and breaking them down for powder.

The sound now made him sick to the pit of his roiling stomach.

He turned his gaze towards the gate, towards the shadows of it that were too far away to see. He’d have to help Yusaku first. But if he ran, he could still-

“Don’t,” Yusaku warned, his tone cold. “Don’t do what you’re thinking of. They can’t kill me. They can kill you.”

Shoichi guestured needlessly over Yusaku’s body, his slowly healing wounds. “They _hurt_ you.”

“They didn’t.” Yusaku picked a chunk of his arm from the ground- bone, mostly- and pushed it up against the jagged stump still attached to his shoulder.

“What?”

“I said they didn’t,” Yusaku repeated, tone heavy. Rarely did Shoichi feel that Yusaku could be _dangerous_ , but a hint of that lurked in him then. It froze Shoichi to the spot. He forced himself to calm down, to count his breaths as Yusaku continued, quieter- “They didn’t. You should know this already. Sentinels don’t bleed. We put ourselves back together. And we hardly feel pain.”

Carefully Shoichi took hold of one of the stakes, meeting Yusaku’s eyes in unspoken question. Yusaku nodded, then began to search for the next piece of himself splayed out in the dirt. Shoichi braced himself, checked the angle that the stake had been driven in, then pulled it out fast as he could. Metal shrieked against bone, and Yusaku flinched.

“But you felt _something_.”

Yusaku didn’t reply. Shoichi continued, “You’re forgiving them?”

“No. But I’m used to this.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

Silence. Overwhelming in the volume of what was left unsaid. Another piece of Yusaku’s arm, pushed back into place and held there until the flesh had knitted itself back together. Shoichi used to think he knew the limits of his anger, its upper bound. As he pulled the other stake from Yusaku’s leg, he began to think otherwise.

“You should be more careful when you go into town, from now on. You’ve been living here for a while, haven’t you? They might have found out. They’re not going to be kind if they think you’ve been working with me.”  

“Then maybe we should leave.” He’d suggested it before he could think about what he was saying, but when the words hung in the air between them it sounded _right_. He’d been here long enough, poking at coffin dust and chalking out new circuit runes. If anything, he’d lingered in this homely graveyard an age too long. He’d need to make money again. He’d need to find new documents, new artifacts hidden away from the prying gazes of the angels. What he had now clearly wasn’t enough, anyway.

“You can’t travel with me,” Yusaku protested, “No town would let you in. They’d bar you out half a day down.”

Shoichi threw the stakes to the side, and relished in the clatter of them on the earth. “So we stick to the roads! Wouldn’t be comfortable, but I’ve been through worse. And it has to be better than this.”

Yusaku fumbled with a piece of his arm, and it fell back into the dirt, deceptively heavy. “They’d sense me on the roads, too.”

Shoichi grabbed the shard from the ground before Yusaku could, wiping the dirt from it off on his sleeve before holding it back out to Yusaku. “Let’s do it anyway. Find my brother, and find whoever did this to you.”

He didn’t mean the wounds. Yusaku accepted the shard with a careful hand, almost fully returned to its normal shape. The soft look in his eyes told Shoichi that he knew. But he still didn’t agree.

“Besides,” Shoichi added, reaching for a fragment on the ground that looked like it belonged to a missing curve of muscle, “I’m already a gravekeeper. People steer clear of me just for that. I’m not leaving you here. I’m going to make for Den City. Come with me?”

A long pause, the sound of flesh knitting soft back together.

“Okay,” said Yusaku. Then, louder, more like his usual self- “Besides. If you really plan on capturing an angel, then you’ll need the help.”

Shoichi grinned, then held out the next piece. “Thanks, Yusaku. I mean it.”

“You’re just going to make things harder on yourself. Don’t blame me when things go wrong.” Yusaku took it, and Shoichi reached for the next, tossing away a few fragments of stone as he searched.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied- and as the clouds shifted hazy before the moon, the two of them began to plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really funny to me now given "unnamed" and "unknown" is our current plotline but. who would have known the timing would have matched like this (lol)


	7. VI [Moolight Rising]

_WIll you tell me a story? A story about the six pillars of the world? A story about the three things? And the angels? And the false prophet, and the god and the very first gravekeeper and-_

The vase Kusanagi had set on the table shattered on the ground. Yusaku glanced guilty over at it- though to call it a vase would have been a bit of an exaggeration. _Misshapen pot picked from the trash behind the craftsman’s house_ was more accurate. But it had been Kusanagi’s, and Yusaku had gone and smashed it in a moment of uncontrollable magic when he had woken.

Woken Kusanagi too, by the looks of it- the futon laid on the other side of the room moved noticeably, even in the darkness of the hours before dawn.

“Yusaku?” muttered Kusanagi, voice low, cautious. His own magic reached out careful for Yusaku’s, a gentle probe ready to turn sharp with support if they sound themselves facing an enemy. In the dark Misaki’s ears perked up, her soul ready to rise into the wolfhound at the first sign of distress.  

“Sorry,” Yusaku said, trying to rein in the floundering edges of it, “broke the vase. You’ll have to get another one for the flowers.”

Kusanagi didn’t seem angry, though wind still threw up dust in the corners of the room, scouring through the dirt floor to settle in swirls. He pushed himself up from the futon, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and cracking his neck. “I didn’t want to bring it up before, but you have trouble controlling your magic, huh?”

Yusaku didn’t bother to answer. Kusanagi pushed himself up and crossed the floor to sit on the side of Yusaku’s mattress. Yusaku scooted over to the corner to make room, sitting up and crossing his legs.

“Three things,” Kusanagi said. A sudden sense of deja-vu struck through Yusaku, ringing in his ears like his head caught inside a bell. He’d heard that saying before. He’d heard it and knew it was important, but-

Unaware of the sensation not-quite-pain jolting through Yusaku’s head, Kusanagi continued- “When witches first learn how to use magic, we learn the three things that carry it. Bone, blood, soul.”

“I don’t have two of those,” Yusaku pointed out dryly, trying to blink away the uneasiness that only made his magic want to leap from him in a frenzy. “And I’m not sure my bones count as _bones_.”

Kusanagi just clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure they do! Bones are bones, no matter what alchemy’s done to them.”

Yusaku wanted to point out that the point of alchemical transmutations was to alter things into something very much _different_ than their base structures, but refrained. His words were feeling strangely heavy in his mouth, and to force them out would be too much effort for too pointless an argument. “Then what else am I supposed to focus on?”

Kusanagi hummed and crossed his arms, leaning back slightly on the mattress. He glanced over at Yusaku, eyes too sharply considering to be called _lost in thought_. “Magic’s born of bone, held in the blood, executed through the will of the soul. But even without those, you can use some sort of magic. Two more things you do have… You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Let’s call that one of them.”

“Thought?” Yusaku asked, but Kusanagi shook his head.

“Too broad. You can think a lot of things. Let’s call it… Mind. That’s having the presence to think things through rationally. To the logical conclusion. You seem like you’re pretty good at that,” he said, and Yusaku supposed he couldn’t argue. “And then for the last thing, hmm…”

“Impulse,” Yusaku said, and the ringing in his ears vanished with a pop.

Kusanagi glanced back over at him, considering. “Like instinct?”

“Almost,” Yusaku replied, searching for the reason the first word felt stronger than the second but clattering up only on the inside of his empty head. The ringing must have held the answer, but it was hardly as if he could summon it back. He settled for repeating- “Almost. But impulse is closer.”

“Okay,” replied Kusanagi with a smile, “We’ve got your three count. Now it’s just a matter of practice.”

 

Yusaku opened his eyes and thought, soft- _Was that a memory?_

But he had no time to dwell on it. The place he found himself standing now was not the docks; the sea-salt breeze had given way to the soft tang of the air outside the city. But it was masked, mostly, by the taste of flowers like herbal tea, so thick in the air Yusaku almost thought it pink. It drowned out even his own acidic stench.

He was not alone.

The boy before him stood dressed in white, a silver-chained bullet hanging from his neck that reeked with magic. Yusaku recognized it immediately as a different form of the energy he’d felt at the summoning- Revolver. Whoever stood before him now was no ally- and the last bit of his appearance just proved it. Petals of white cherry blossom and rose like feathers burst from the spindly branches on his back, folded neatly into place. The smell of them was sweet, nostalgic for a time that Yusaku couldn’t quite place. The memory was of his senses, but not in his mind.

“Who are you.” A demand, not a question. His magic still hadn’t settled from his confrontation with the two from before, though the sudden emergence of that memory had tamed the rough edges of it.

The one before him raised an eyebrow, a silent request for politeness towards his savior. Yusaku only glared- though he sensed no magic from them beside that of the pendant, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. Something about the boy before him threw Yusaku’s senses off-kilter, sent his impulse seething and skittering and ready to bare its fangs as it roared above his mind.

The boy rolled his shoulders back slightly, seemingly in place of a shrug. Then the boy bowed, sweeping his arm low as he did. Theatrical, almost- like the tradition of some foreign country to which Yusaku would never travel. “My name is Spectre. May I ask the same of you?”

“Fujiki Yusaku.” He answered flatly, trying to judge the interloper’s game. He clearly had a stake in it all if he had spirited Yusaku away on the wind. And if those wings were true, then Yusaku thought he knew exactly what that stake was.

Spectre frowned. The expression was laced thin with pinched disdain. “Your true name. Not the false humanity that man gave you.”

“This is the only name I have.”

Spectre’s expression changed, just a split-second flash of emotion that softened his features from the hard mask of them. But it only lasted a moment before it was gone. Yusaku wasn’t sure, but if he had to put a name to it, then he’d choose _alarm_. “Could it be… You don’t remember?”

“I can’t.” Sharp but flat, allowing no room for counterargument.

“Truly,” Spectre murmerred, too quiet for Yusaku to tell if it was a question or a statement. There was not a tremendous amount of space between them, standing in the shadow of the city wall in the verdant grasses below. Still Spectre stepped forwards to cross it; Yusaku braced himself but refused to step back. Something in Spectre’s eyes glowed blue as a teardrop chizeled of aquamarine as their gazes met. The light was uncanny- Yusaku got the sudden sense of standing at the bottom of the ocean, staring up at the light dancing on the faraway surface.

Spectre reached forth to grab his wrist- gentler than Yusaku would have guessed. Only then did his magic unfurl, blossoming from their point of contact with a natural sort of urgency that drew it into his flesh. “Then allow me to give you a memory.”

* * *

She was not supposed to be here. The girl knew that with all her heart. If her mother were to know of this- if she were ever to catch wind of her daughter traipsing through a graveyard, on the border of dream and reality regardless- then she knew what trouble she’d find waiting for her, a jagged halt in the routine of her daily life.

The girl frowned. She’d already had quite enough taken from her. She wouldn’t stand for any more. Besides- It was as if the lonely graves had beckoned her back, singing a song of future dreams. Against that sort of pull, the girl simply could not resist.

And so in the graveyard she found herself, searching with narrowed eyes against the sun for the boy she had spotted last time. He _had_ to be here. She knew with a perfect certainty that he must, knew it in the way of someone half on the border of sleep and waking who could not yet separate the dream from the reality. Anything could be true so long as one believed it, and the girl knew that she would find the boy here. He wouldn’t, after all, go back into town anymore.

She slipped through the graveyard with attentive eyes, sharp not only for the mystery but for the marvel of it. She’d often thought graves dreary things, untouchable by a decent man but necessary all the same. Never before had she seen a graveyard so blooming full of life. Wisteria flourished in purple and soft pink amongst the trellises, curling their vines soft around old, splintering wood. She dared not reach out to touch- if she did, then it seemed to her that the whole structure would come down upon her shoulders. Still she passed under a few, staring up at them with open-eyed wonder. She walked kindly through graves, winding her way careful through them without so much as brushing the edge of her sleeve against one. To touch would make her untouchable, she repeated like a mantra. A shameful secret that would bind her for all her life.

So she mustn’t, she thought, and stepped carefully out of the graves, back onto the dirt path through until the swamp. There was a hill, a wooden shack of sorts up near where the woods met the graveyard, an unofficial end to the space humans had claimed for their dead.

At the top of the hill she spotted him.

He was as he had been before- a boy cloaked in an old ratty cape, hood drawn low over his face, casting his eyes dark into shadow. It was impossible to tell his age- the same as her, perhaps.

“Hello,” she called, trying pretend that she was just passing through. She would realize later what a feeble premise that was- children did not simply pass through the graveyard without reason. And even then, only the most foolish of them dared sneak through the cracked-open gates. But at the time, it sufficed.

The boy startled, but did not respond. The girl frowned. Vrains was just beyond the swamp, a whole different country nestled into the mountains- but she thought she remembered hearing that the witches spoke the same language as everyone in Sol. A few things were different- a woman could be called _King_ , in Vrains- but the words themselves meant the same. Even if he was a stranger from a foreign land, thought the girl, surely he understood her simple words. She said again- “Hello.”

The boy reached up to pull the hood of his cloak further around his head and turned his back to her, scurrying up to the cabin, but she wasn’t to be outrun. She was quite fast- and she proved it as she ran up beside the boy, grabbing his wrist and plastering a smile on her face, bright and friendly.

The boy didn’t return it.

“You need to go,” said the boy, twisting his wrist so as to take hold of hers and all but dragging her towards the woods. She protested, but his grip was ironclad; in the end she had no choice but to follow. “It’s not safe for you here. People like you don’t belong here. So leave. And don’t tell anyone you saw me here. They’ll hurt you if you do.”

The boy all but threw her into the woods, and she stumbled up the slope. She’d heard the story. She really had- but that was all she’d thought it was. Just something to scare children to sleep and obedience come morning. But if it was _real_ -

“What’s your name?” asked the girl- it was almost an afterthought, as she ran into the woods, as she turned just before the shadow of the first of the trees. She was worried that the boy might have gone, that he might have slipped back away into the graveyard, already too far to hear, but he was still standing right as she had left him.

The boy took in a breath, sharp, then said-

* * *

The world returned to Yusaku in fits and bursts, pieces of sensation and the taste of the spring. He felt, not for the first time, strange in his own body- though this was perhaps the first time the feeling struck him while he was all in one piece. “That wasn’t my memory.”

“No. I’m powerful, but even I can’t revive what’s been forgotten. Only take from one and give to another. Though I imagine that jogged your memory.” Spectre smiled. The blue of his eyes still held a fragment of that uncanny light. “You remember now, yes? Your name.”

He remembered. Of course he did. But there was one thing more important than what his answer to that question had been. Yusaku’s hands clenched into fists. “If you already knew, then why did you ask?”

A thin smile crossed Spectre’s lips. “Because I wanted you to tell me. Is that not reason enough?”

That was more of an answer than Yusaku was expecting to get, but he didn’t let it show on the bland frown of his features. He was certain, then, that this was some sort of game. He didn’t know the rules, but fleeing wasn’t an option- not when Spectre would only be able to call him back.

“...Playmaker.”

His expression hardly changed- but for a moment, it seemed to Yusaku that Spectre’s smile became just a fraction more genuine. “Tell me, Playmaker… Won’t you join the Knights of Hanoi?”

* * *

“You were bluffing,” said Shoichi, and Ema froze, switchblade half returned to her pocket.

“Excuse me?”

“You wouldn’t have done it. If you’d killed me, then Yusaku would have come after you, and you would be dead.” He said it quite jovially, for a man who’d just had a knife to this throat. Ema couldn’t help but eye him with skepticism. She preferred avoidance to conflict, but the few times she’d held a knife to someone’s throat for information, no one had dared smile at her once she’d removed it.

“And yet you still told me everything, so who’s the real fool here?” She smiled, and this time it really was sincere. Calling a bluff did nothing after the fact. The most blood her blade had ever seen was the unfortunate end of a roach she hadn’t been able to shoo out the door, but there was no way for him to have known that.

Shoichi pushed off the thin sheet, bunching it on the side of the bed. Ema glanced at his bandages- still white, though probably in need of changing. “Do I finally get the chance to ask you a question?”

“For a small price,” she said, with a smile and a wink, “if you’re willing to pay. I have no interest in men who go around spilling their secrets for free, you know.”

“You haven’t been very fair, have you?”

She stepped back, slightly, returning to the table where the empty teapot sat cold as the cups- the one she’d poured for herself ages ago the only one still full. “And you were the one to point out that I sell information, not give it away.”

She didn’t turn her back to him, however. It allowed her to see the quick flash of emotions across his face when he said- “I’ll pay whatever price you want. What happened to Yusaku?”

_Worry. Concern. The barest hint of anger beneath it all._

“Those are dangerous words, you know. Someone with a colder heart might take you up on them,” Ema warned, silencing Shoichi’s protests with a single sidelong glance. “He was spirited away. And before you ask. No, I don’t know to where, and I don’t know by who.”

Though she had more than a good idea. The brand on her neck screamed with the confirmation of that old magic, kin speaking to kin. Ema shoved it back down in her senses, ignoring the voice that nagged her about her time running short through the neck of the hourglass.

“I have another question.”

_Determination. The hard set of it, a slow burn that took everything else for kindling._

Ema traced her finger around the rim of a teacup. “Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ll have the answer.”

Shoichi swung his legs out and off the bed, grimacing all the while. But he did not falter- not in action, not in word. “How much for you to help me find him?”

“Well,” she said, letting her gaze wander over him in lazy contemplation, “you did say anything, didn’t you? I could ask for your soul, right now.”

“If that’s what it takes.” He was serious. So genuine, that for a moment Ema was taken aback. In his own words, he and Yuskau were like family. One of choice, grown stronger through the years they’d spent planning to attack what remained of Hanoi to find their truth. But to see that willingness, to see someone who’d go so far for such a pitiful creature-

Ema sighed. She supposed this put things back on track. “Then I’ll settle. A gift, and a favor. That’s all all I’ll ask of you, Kusanagi Shoichi.”

Ema held out her hand. She preferred a written contract with first-time customers, but time was short and she’d simply have to make do with what she had. Shoichi reached out to take it, and she pulled him to his feet. He grimaced, but hardly staggered- so her potion was doing its job in one way, at least. “Deal.”

“Deal,” she repeated, again putting on that charming smile- as much a persona as a truth, by now. She dropped his hand, and between them there was the barest hint of a resonance. But the witch named Kusanagi Shoichi wasn’t looking at her- his gaze was already set on what their mission, utterly unknowing of what had just transpired.

* * *

A half-second of silence. The rising moonlight poured down uncaring of the fractured mood.

“I wouldn’t,” snarled Yusaku, trying to pull his wrist back from Spectre’s grasp. Spectre only anticipated him and kept careful hold, stepping forwards as Yusaku moved back.

“And why not? You know how humans treat anything holy. They tarnish everything sacred and elevate demons to godhood. There are no gods or destinies in this world, Playmaker. Only opportunists and the ones who would see them dead for justice.” Spectre spoke those words as simple facts. They fell from him with such certainty, as if he’d summed up the world in a meagre four sentences, as if he’d destroyed every protest Yusaku could make before he could utter it.

Yusaku glowered down at him. “You wouldn’t know anything about the way this world works. Or my place in it.”

“The way the world works? Your place in it?” Spectre laughed, and for the first time his expression crossed into derision- too haughty for simple amusement, too personal for pity. “With hardly any memories, how would you even know that yourself?”

The remark was clawing, cutting right down to the unbeating heart of him. But it wasn’t as if he was a void- especially not after the past two years. Those, he still remembered in clarity. “I know enough to say I would never join forces with the ones who made me this way.”

“You don’t possibly…” Spectre began, posture abruptly turning tense, stiff at the shoulders. His grip on Yusaku’s wrist tightened, the warm press of his grip strong enough that it would have been painful had Yusaku been anything else. “You can’t possibly _want_ to be human, can you?”

Yusaku’s turn to steal his protests away. A simple truth, the first of three. “I want to take back what I’ve lost.”

“You’ve _surpassed_ them,” said Spectre, “You’ve attained a gift that pathetic humanity could only aspire to. The nature of the world itself bends to your will. In their feeble minds humans fear you, because they cannot understand the purpose of your creation. And you believe that weakness is something to which you should _return?_ You absolute… You’ll have no soul-”

“I don’t need a soul to be accepted.” Yusaku wanted to spit the words, but delivering them with pride earned him the better reaction. Spectre’s eyes widened, and for a moment, all he could do was meet Yusaku’s eyes with a gaze straining not to give away whatever edge of emotion he was trembling on.

Still. When he spoke, his words didn’t match his eyes. “Foolish. One _untouchable_ accepting you hardly makes you human. There’s hardly a difference between-”

For a moment did the smell of flowers in the wind give way to salt, the taste of the sea far from the Den City docks. Spectre’s jaw snapped shut, all his accusations lost again to a chilling of his tone.

“Revolver. My apologies for the delay. Playmaker-”

Yusaku’s magic flared wild. The breeze gusted fast into a whirlwind that threw up the grass and ripped through the petal-stench heavy in the air. It cut through the space between them with a howl, tearing a few blossom-feathers from Spectre’s wings before he could shield himself with another flash of blue.

Behind his mask Revolver’s eyes glowed with that same haunting spark they had in the graveyard the night before. He didn’t so much as move a muscle, save the sidelong glance he gave Yusaku. The wind parted around him without so much as ruffling his hair. He smirked- the same expression he’d made when putting forth his ultimatum. “Spectre,” he said, though his gaze had yet to leave Yusaku, “I see he’s not open to our proposal yet. Time is short. We’ll return to him later.”

“Understood.”  With his free hand, Spectre snapped his fingers. The earth beneath Yusaku’s feet trembled. Though he tried to jerk back, to leap away from the crumbling of it, Spectre’s hand around his wrist kept him firmly in place, locking his joints and stifling the source of his magic. And from the earth rose a set of vines that wove around him an elegant cage, deceptive in the frail curl of its woven-together stems. Thorns bloomed forth beneath the faded carnations and yellow roses. Yusaku knew without touching them that they’d be sharper than a blade.

Spectre dropped his hand at the very last moment, and a single sweet pea sealed up the hole before Yusaku could so much as reach for it. Only then did Spectre finally step back. His gaze was no longer on Yusaku- rather it had switched firmly towards Revolver.

“Stay here a moment,” said Revolver, and though Yusaku could not see his face, he was sure it was set in a smirk. “We’ll be back to negotiate the terms. And I assure you. You’ll find them convincing.”

“I doubt that,” he spat, but Revolver had already turned his back.

“Spectre,” he said, and then the two of them were gone, vanished along with the cloying scent of flowers. Not so much as a petal, a trace remained of them. Overhead, the sky began to streak itself in orange and pink, setting over the distant ocean. Alone, Yusaku turned careful around his cage, eyeing the red-tipped thorns that followed his every move.

_Hey,_ called the voice, quiet and foreign in the back of his mind, words too indistinct to grasp, _tell me, please? About how the angel of death said a soul for a soul?_


	8. VII [Alliance Call]

The night had not been kind to Zaizen Aoi.

She’d spent most of it reading and rereading passages from her current set of books, mind skipping over lines read but not comprehended a dozen times over before she’d managed to clear her head enough to take in the meaning. She’d requested books on summonings- on brushing against the border between the three worlds and seizing a fragment of existence from one of the parallel two.  

But perhaps, she thought, shoving one to the side to rest on a stray pillow, she’d been looking in the wrong direction. Death magic was nothing but theory and rumor, like the storybook witch who’d cursed her son to immortality in her final moments, or the history of her own line- the Blue Angel who had banished Hanoi back to the heavens in her final breath. But her encounter with the Sentinel had only convinced her. It existed. It existed, and Aoi could only wonder as to the strength of it.

 _Immortal soldiers._ The desperate final research of a crumbling kingdom. The Knights of Hanoi, the magic that had summoned them, now lost to all but the Zaizen line.

Aoi closed her eyes with a sigh and threw the crook of her elbow over them, her insomnia-laced mind fighting her tired body. She bit her cheek and grimaced at the pull of the healing flesh. _We only have until dawn_ , thought Aoi, resisting the urge to check for Holly or Bella on the windowsill again when she knew full well she’d sense them well before she saw them. The guards were on high alert; there would be no escaping out the side gates tonight. If only, she thought, she could grasp invisibility, could move at the mere whim of thought- but such things were beyond humanity.

What sleep Aoi had snatched was fitful, and full of uneasy fragments of the day’s events, mixed with flashes of blood a decade old. A mother’s hand. A turned back. A marriage ceremony. A poor child, left alone amongst the blood. She’d lost count of how many times she’d gasped herself awake and betrayed her own resolve to cast her gaze out towards the windowsill, hoping for Holly or Bella only to feel the pull of them far away, somewhere down in the city unknown. And so she’d read a few pages, lost track of their meanings, and fell back to fitful sleep, the cycle repeating. She’d finally pulled out _Blue Angel_ from her shelf, desperate for pure sleep or to simply keep herself awake.

_A long time ago, when the Kingdom of Sol was but a glimmer in the eyes of the Zaizen witches, there lived an angel. She was isolated from the other angels, and oft liked to flit between the worlds. She had no home, and no place, but all knew her for her beauty and her intelligence. But there was to be great trouble on earth. The angel could not have known that. For down below, the Zaizen witches and their coven were warring greatly with a set of angels fallen to earth- the Knights of Hanoi._

_She could not have known, but one day, something strange began to happen. One by one, the other angels in Heaven began to disappear. The Blue Angel knew not where they had went, or what she should do- she was always alone, after all. She’d flit about as suddenly her heaven turned to something dark and horrid, something evil, searching for the others. Perhaps the six gods would know, she thought-_

_And soon, a tug came. But it was not from the place she had expected. Instead it came from earth. That was the summon of the First King. For, in an attempt to stop the Knights of Hanoi-_

Aoi didn’t remember falling asleep, that time. But in the last fitful moments of it, she’d had a dream. A proper dream, one not of static images and frantic but unidentifiable emotion but of fluid sense and Zaizen magic. The sky overhead was bright and blue, a reflection of the ocean below. There wasn’t so much as a cloud until the horizon line towards which the sun had yet to sink.

In the dream she wore white. It was not the white of the matriarch, not her flowing robes and delicate ornaments. Rather, it was a dress. Short, fluttering in thin, cool fabric against the skin above her knees. Purple bangles adorned her wrists, the delicate ring that held her whip familiar on her finger.

Her body moved without her permission, stepping slow and tense up the three stone steps. She knew those steps, knew them perfectly. They were the ones in the far courtyard, through the gardens and beyond the teahouse. She’d spent all her childhood playing atop the square platform like a circuit, pretending at games of _Blue Angel_ , defending the _First King_ from attacks of the angels.

She ascended the final step to a roar of applause, a rise of the crowd that had all faded down to nothing, a blur of a background made dull by the dream. On the altar-ring she was not alone. There was a young man standing before her, dressed to match- all in white, a certain confidence about him even as he stood a parody of royal color.

“You won’t have this one,” she said, squaring her shoulders to her opponent. It was her voice, in her mannerisms. But it was not her choice to say them. Aoi scrambled for any sense of control, only to find herself shoved hard back into the recesses of her own consciousness.

Her opponent opened his mouth-

And then something crumbled. Aoi didn’t know what, and she could so much as reach out a hand to try and seize it as it fell to pieces before her eyes. There was movement, the exhilarating rush of magic like taking wing-

_“What human could ever hope to defeat an angel?”_

The dream skipped and scratched down to impulse and sensation; Aoi tried to close herself off from the nauseating swirl of it to no avail. In the dream, as just a speck of herself, she had no eyes to close.

And then, suddenly, the world slowed again. The possibilities narrowed themselves down to one. She was in the air, leaping with the wind at her back like a soul in flight- and then something snagged around her ankle, her wrist. She had only a split second to glance down at them- around her coiled a vine, glimmering with a magic almost sickly- and then she was pulled to the ground. Her back slammed down to the stone, and vaguely she felt something shatter, though her awareness was saved the true feeling of pain.

Aoi floundered, but again her limbs wouldn’t move, weighed down by something she still did not understand. None of her dreams had been like this, before. In none of them did she bow to a will other than her own-

The young man stepped before her, looming down tall, hands folded neatly behind his back. Magic crawled out from him so strong it was nearly visible in the air around him, pulsing a terrible, bloody red even as his eyes flared blue.

“Goodbye,” he said, “pathetic Princess. You could never hope to become an angel.”

The magic stabbed down, solidifying into vines as they pierced through her, tearing holes into her lungs, her stomach, her _heart_ -

Aoi woke, gasping for air against the dream of her own death. She stared down at her hands, flexing them meaninglessly, proving in each clench of her palms and strain of her fingers that they were, indeed, _hers_. Her heart beat frantic in her chest, the needed reminder that it was still whole, the taste of air in her lungs refreshing as coming up after an age of her head beneath the blankets. _If only it had been that simple._

A chill ran up her spine, and she pulled the thin silk of her sheets around her shoulders, bunching them tight and grimacing as the cool slip of them only sapped what was left of her body heat. She always woke up cold, but this was something else.

This was the chill of eyes on her, a gaze whose owner was invisible to the eye. Aoi cast off her blanket and climbed to her feet beside the bed, scanning through the posts of her bed for the source of the sensation. She’d fallen asleep with all her jewelry still on, and it was warm with what little body heat alarm sent through her. She called into the silence- “Who are you? What do you want with me, intruder?”

And then Aoi felt it, the pull of the earring on her left ear- Aoi glanced towards the window, hearing the cry like a whisper, watching the way the moonlight didn’t spill quite right though the window- it was almost as it was reflected atop the surface of a lake, rippling with the touch of a leaf atop its surface. “Reveal yourself, now.”

For a moment, Aoi thought nothing would happen. Then, softly- “As you wish.”

There was a snap, and then across the bed from her stood a boy, dressed all in white. Holly was pinched by the wings between his fingers, held kicking but unable to escape. He released her, and the guardian fluttered over to land on Aoi’s shoulder, flapping her wings with unsteady beats until she’d regained her balance in the air.

“You,” Aoi breathed, “You’re the one from my dream. The angel. Why are you here?”

The boy bowed, moonlight spilling over his shoulders and dappling his wings. He smiled with an expression that would be kind on someone else but was only uncanny on the face she’d dreamt of. "Who knows... Perhaps I was born to meet you?"

“Cut it out,” Aoi snapped, magic flaring around every piece of jewelry she had. “You wouldn’t be here without a reason. I’ll have you tell me.”

He met her gaze with expression neutral- the hint of amusement in his eyes, perhaps, but little more. She did so wish he’d stop smiling so blandly pleasant at her.

“I know you want freedom,” he said, “and I’m only here to provide. I come to propose a deal, Your Highness. An alliance, of sorts.”

Aoi scoffed. For an angel to ever ally with a human after the First King was unheard of, and Aoi was hardly a fool. No freedom was worth the price an angel would make her pay. “I’m not going to trust an angel. And certainly not an opponent before the start of a war game.”

“I don’t need Your Highness’ trust. Our goals simply align for the moment, is all.” He paused a moment, and something smug rose in his expression that Aoi instantly detested. “Besides, Your Highness. You must know better than anyone that we wouldn’t accept a proposal for a war game now. Not when you and that petty council of yours has no chip to bargain with.”

Aoi resisted the urge to click her tongue and bite her cheek. She hadn’t learned diplomacy since birth to miss a threat hardly disguised. “What need does an angel have of alliance, then?”

The boy shifted; for the first time did Aoi notice how think the scent of cherry blossoms in the air had become. It was a distinct contrast from the white tsubaki and sagiso in a vase at her bedside, or the lotus and morning glory she’d ground up into dust for a spell she’d begun to prepare. “You’ll find my terms are very simple, Your Highness. Your guardians have already tracked down the Sentinel in question. I can take us there in a moment of thought. No one will so much as know you’ve left the Palace. We combine our respective powers to subdue him and whoever his conspirators might be. And at the end of it, you regain the Ignis and its bargaining power to save your Kingdom, any prisoners that might arise as conspirators to the plot, and I take back my target. Those terms are more than fair. Don’t you agree?”

The terms were simple. Almost suspiciously so. But there was one thing- one final thing that Aoi needed to understand. “That Sentinel. He’s _not_ allied with you? The only ones who can create a Sentinel are angels... Yet he acts against you?”

Finally did the boy’s expression turn unpleasant, quirked into the edges of a frown. “He is our creation, I assure you. Unfortunately, his loyalty to his makers is… Well. I assume that you know of the collective unconscious, yes? And its tendency towards entropy? He is a servant of that force, having turned his back on righteousness.”

“You’re saying that Sentinel is trying to end the world?” Aoi ignored his pompous talk of Hanoi and cut straight to the matter at hand. _The End of the World_. It didn’t sound terribly different from what Hanoi itself had been trying to do for a millennia- if the six pillar gods were to cease existing, then surely the world would crumble, too.

“Regardless of whether he’s conscious of it or not, that will be the end result of his actions. Even we would find ourselves inconvenienced by nonexistence. I assure you. About this I have no reason to lie, Your Highness.”

Aoi took a breath. “I thought a Sentinel lacked a free will. They were tools of war without minds, before the First King instituted the war games.”

“Then I would say that there is very much you don’t know about a true Sentinel, Your Highness.” Again did the look on his face turn haughty. Aoi stared him down defiant, unwilling to be looked down on- but on that point she could not argue without lying, and the both of them knew it. Creating a Sentinel was beyond human power- or at least beyond current knowledge. If it had ever existed, it had vanished along with the angels a millennia ago to the plane of their heaven.

“I suppose not,” she forced herself to say placidly, then took a long blink, a soft exhale.

The Zaizens did not dream of the future. No witch did.

But in the faraway world that Aoi had been passenger in her own body to, she had been fighting in a war game. Fighting as champion, in the clothes of the angel that had left this world a millennia ago to end the terror of the angels. If what she had seen rang true as those childhood dreams, then she wouldn’t be dying tonight. And even if she were destined to, then Aoi would refuse. “Fine,” said Aoi, “I accept those terms, and put forth a final one of my own.”

“Oh?”

“Until those terms have come to pass, then you cannot attack me, and I cannot attack you. Nor can we conspire to hurt each other. Violation of this rule ends our alliance, and the violator pays with their soul. Do you find that acceptable?”  

Aoi left no room for refusal, daring him to try and talk her down. The boy blinked slow, bowing his head- and the next second he was standing at her side, half-bowed in deference.

“Excellent. I accept, of course.” He held out his hand, a delicate invitation for Aoi to take it. “Then. Shall we?”

There was no time for hesitation- she’d simply have to trust her instincts and believe that this temporary alliance before the game was right. Aoi stepped forward and took it. His eyes sparked blue as whale oil, and with the sensation of falling, they vanished into the night.

* * *

Ema was beginning to wonder if Kusanagi Shoichi was really in any state to have made a deal with her- especially on the terms she’d asked. Having Playmaker fail was one thing- she’d never needed those ingredients anyway, and the chance to observe him had been all she’d wanted, really- but this was a contract that _mattered_.

He lost his footing on an overturned stone, and even that was nearly enough to send him toppling to the ground. Ema slid up beside him, sliding under his arm and curling a hand behind his back to steady him. He glanced down at her, and there wasn’t nearly as much gratitude there as she deserved.

“You can barely walk,” Ema pointed out, but Shoichi pushed off her shoulder to stagger forwards on his own, each step steadier than the last. The gauntlet half-hidden under his long sleeve glinted silver in the moonlight, but Ema was hardly fooled. A faint green glow shone through, and there was no mistaking that for anything but what it was. She frowned. That would complicate things.

“The angels are out,” Shoichi said, glancing from pillar of light to pillar of light, a triad surrounding all corners but that of the sea- and Ema had no doubt that a threat of a different brand was waiting there. A song rang taunting through her head, a children’s poem from Vrains brought to fruition before her- _gold brings famine and red summons war, and the flame burns with fever ‘till Ai don’t wake anymore._

“No kidding!” said the Ignis, chirping too-loud in the street that had been struck by silence.

“Quiet, you,” Ema said, pulling tight the strap of the drawstring back around her shoulders and peering around the corner. Slowly the trio had been working their way through the city set on-edge and tense. They’d skirted around more than one fire, and more than one drunkard singing songs about the end of the world. The Royal Guard would be out to suppress them soon enough, with that prim efficiency of thiers. “You’re nothing but a liability.”

“But you brought me along anyway,” sang the Ignis, before falling blessedly silent. It was better to bring it along and risk danger rather than leave it unattended- any tragedy could befall it then.

Slowly they crept out to the far edge of Den City, out to the places most eyes never saw. No angel stood atop this part of the crumbling wall, falling into the river that ran beside it, outside the city bounds.

“Since this is my last chance,” said Shoichi, pausing at the edge of the wall, “how much do you know about trapping angels?”

Ema almost laughed, bitter- since their last attempt had obviously backfired in the worst of ways. But she held herself back. They could do no worse than they already had. And if he was truly that desperate for leads to his missing brother, then who was Ema to deny him?

“I have a vague knowledge,” she said, joining him in the shadows, “but that’ll cost you a lot more than you can pay me, right now. And there’s not much you can do now that they’ve descended on their own. Your best bet is to track them down in a fight. You were after the one called Taki Kyoko, weren’t you?”

Shoichi nodded. Ema scanned her gaze around the rooftops, then settled on the orange light, raising a finger in an elegant point. “That one. But I’ll warn you now. She’s the one most dangerous for a human to face. There’s a reason she’s gone undefeated in the war games.”

“Good thing I’ve got someone who isn’t physically human then, huh?” Shoichi replied, grinning in a way that was no longer half-grimace. It was with total assuredness- the certainty of victory. It was almost achingly familiar.

“How lucky indeed,” Ema replied, then inclined her head towards the gap in the wall where part of the river fell through to overflow in the gutters. “Through here.”

“Thanks,” said Shoichi, then slipped through, leaving Ema to follow behind, heart heavy with the memory of a gamble not won.

* * *

The night was in a panic. Go knew no other way to describe it- people burned away the midnight oil, light flooding out from the cracks of closed curtains so as to dim even the stars. But still they were no challenge for the angels that had settled themselves upon the town- shining yellow like a false sun on the northern wall, glowing orange on the southern, burning red atop the Palace, reminders of their ultimatum. Those who dared still run the streets did so with ducked heads and hoods drawn tight around their eyes, desperate to avoid eye contact with anyone who could be an angel, lest they end up gasping for their life around a bullet.

In the arena the angels had vanished with the echo of the gunshot, and in the lightless room there had been chaos. He’d done all he could to try and calm the panicked crowd, but the gunshot had rung like a death knell, shattering the illusion of the frozen world. He’d helped people out and home- helped most, he’d like to think- but people had left hurt, with sprained ankles and bruises on their chests where they’d been elbowed by others frantic to escape. It had been a stampede- messy and frantic and a human cascade- but no one had died. That too, he liked to think he had a part in helping.

Go let out a long breath and trudged down the shadowed street- a few lamps were burning on streetposts, but most of them were out. He only had one stop left for the night- a familiar one, the one he’d been waiting for all day. There was something waiting on the front step, bright in the shadowed dark of it. Go picked up the paper from the step- a special edition of the _Den City Press Paper_ , detailing in luxurious detail the events of the angels’ arrival in the arena. Go almost laughed; of course Frog and Pigeon would still be running the night. Go guessed by the way it had been half-shoved under the mat that they weren’t even charging. He couldn’t say much for their business practices, but their dedication, at least, he could respect.

Paper in hand, Go let himself into the orphanage of his childhood, knowing it would be his last chance before the dawn to check on the children- and if he was lucky, to catch an hour or two of sleep before the angels’ time limit expired.

The foyer was dark. Usually a candle or lantern was left burning for a child who might wake in the night, but not this time. Seeing a woman slumped over in one of the two foyer chairs, he asked, “Is everyone okay?”

She lifted her head at the question, at the soft shuffle of his steps closer. The caretaker nodded. She was a put-together woman- always had been, and always would be- but Go could see the dark circles that had formed under her eyes with the stress of the past few hours. She looked as worn as Go felt- and that was saying something for the both of them. “Everyone is sleeping, now. A few of the children’s eyes hurt from the light, and I’m sure the crying only exacerbated the problem… But I do believe they’ll all be fine come morning.”

Go let out a long breath- _Thank the gods_. If any one of the children had gotten hurt at his match, coming to cheer him on… He didn’t want to spare it the thought. He’d hardly be able to call himself a hero, then. “Good. Do you mind if I-”

A knock at the door. Go turned on it, cautious- but the time limit was far from up, and he couldn’t imagine the angels descending upon on orphanage, of all places. He waved her to stay down in her chair, and went for the door himself. He pulled himself up back to his full height and ignored the way something in his back twinged as he opened the door again.

Pigeon stood there, looking simultaneously a man who’d been worked to the bone and a kid eager to push himself so much further before he crashed. “Hello, sorry about knocking so late but is- oh. Onizuka, sir! I have a message for you! A letter! Actually!”

“Great,” said Go, too tired to deal with another round of well-intentioned nonsense before he’d have to put himself back on the streets before dawn. “Can I have it?”

“Not from me,” said Pigeon, three times shriller than usual, shoulders tense and spine straight. If Go didn’t know any better, he’d say that Pigeon was scared stiff. “It’s from His Majesty and the High Council of Sol!”

Go glanced over his shoulder, but there was no motion in the darkened hall, no sounds of children rising from their beds. THe caretaker was watching with concern, now, and seemed to be gathering the will to push herself to her feet. He held out his hands, trying to get Pigeon to calm down. “Okay, okay. I’ll take it. Just. Keep it down. There are kids sleeping here.”

“Of course. Sorry sir,” said Pigeon, not _significantly_ any quieter but enough that Go was fairly convinced he wasn’t going to start yelling again. He pulled the letter from a mess of papers inside his satchel and all but shoved it into Go’s waiting hand.

He’d received letters from the Crown a few times before- usually as notification that some noble or another would be attending one of his matches and demanded an audience afterwards. Not his ideal picture of an evening, but there were certainly harsher nights than those spent entertaining a particularly rich fan.

This one was much the same- the royal seal in wax stamped over a folded paper, smooth and pleasant to the touch- nothing like the woodblock prints or thin, cheap paper of the newsreels. In lieu of a letter opener, Go hooked his finger under the wax seal and pulled it open. It came off cleanly- as to be expected of royal paper, he supposed.

He skimmed the letter. The contents were exactly as he’d thought- _Request your presence. Participant in the war games. Before the dawn. Protector to the King._

Go glanced up; Pigeon was still standing in the doorway. He said, a belated explanation- “I’m also supposed to deliver your response! Sir!”

That explained it. The kid had probably never stepped foot on the Palace grounds before, much less spoken to anyone involved with the King or the High Council. He was, in fact, more nervous than he’d probably been in his life. The caretaker reached up to touch his shoulder, gently bringing his attention down to her.

“Are you going to go?” she asked. Go nodded. There was never another answer- even if the Crown hadn’t called, he would have volunteered himself nonetheless.

“Please be careful,” she said, “not just for your sake. The children really do admire you. And so do the people of this city, Go. So please…”

Go smiled down at her- the same smile as the ring, back in his early days. Assured of his victory, no matter the size of his opponent. This was his city just as much as it was the Council’s or the King’s. He’d protect it, and see the death of Hanoi with his own two hands. If he couldn’t do that, then what was he worth? “Don’t worry. I’ll be just fine.”

He turned to Pigeon, then continued- “Let’s go.”

Pigeon all but stumbled over himself trying to move out of the way as Go brushed past him in the doorframe, trotting through the street two steps to Go’s every one. He could go that many more hours without sleep, if that was what it took. He wouldn’t disappoint, he thought, cracking his knuckles and making for the Palace. He wouldn’t allow it.

* * *

“Yusaku,” came the whisper, pulling from the shadow of the wall towards the cage. Yusaku turned towards it immediately, keeping Kusanagi from touching the flowers with a pointed look. Kusanagi came close, and Yusaku could feel his magic probing vaguely for the weakest point of the cage.

“Can you undo this?” he asked, waving careful at the vines around him. The thorns swayed slightly, as a snaggle-toothed jaw ready to snap shut around him. Given the way it had formed, Yusaku had no doubt it was poised to do just that.

“No,” said another voice, sauntering from the shadows with much less concern, “But I can.”

“Ghost Girl.” His acknowledgement was flat- but he could hardly stand to be in her debt again. Not when she seemed the type to never forget one left unrepaid.

“Don’t worry,” she said, kneeling before the single sweet pea and studying it a moment, “this one’s already paid for. But you still owe me for the first one. I won’t forget that.”

Yusaku figured. Ghost Girl reached out a gentle finger to brush against the pink of the petals before Yusaku could warn her otherwise- but the vicious energy of the thorns didn’t change directions, didn’t reach out and snap at her hand. Drops of blood bled out from under her glove, the side of her nails, dancing through the air as they pulsed like lightningbugs under the stars. They fluttered around the cage, sinking into a few of the flowers with small jolts of magic that sent shudders running through the air inside the cage.

Ghost Girl didn’t so much as close her eyes to concentrate. Again she tapped the delicate center of the sweet pea, and the vines crumbled down into dust, harmless around Yusaku’s shoulders. She grinned as she stood, cheeks flushed pale pink in the low light. “Easy.”

Yusaku stepped out from the ring of cracked earth as the last of the vines faded down to nothing. Ghost Girl took her time standing, seemingly relishing in the cleanness of her work, then nodded and stepped off.

“Then,” said Ghost Girl, waving dainty over her shoulder, “I’ll be off. Make good on our agreement, okay?”

And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows where the wall crumbled into the slope of a hill near where she and Kusanagi had first emerged. Yusaku didn’t have so much as a hint as to where.

“What did you promise her?” Yusaku asked, apprehensive of the answer he’d receive.

Kusanagi held out his fist, and Yusaku held out his palm. A small pouch dropped into it, identical to the one Ghost Girl had first given him. He said in lieu of an answer, “We need to go back into the city.”

Yusaku closed his fist around it, clutching it tight. This time, he tied it around the button of his collar beneath the cloak. “We have scores to settle.”


	9. VIII [Deadliners]

“Where is the Princess?”

Hayami flinched at the sound of Kitamura stomping down the halls, echoing loud in the emptiness of them. Most of the staff had long since been dismissed for the day- a motion Hayami had backed wholeheartedly. There was little work to be done in these early hours of the morning, and hardly any of what remained was getting done, what with the angel in red hovering over their heads. The only ones who still walked the palace halls were a few brave souls and the diplomatic staff, worked to down to the bone.

Still, she turned to Kitamura and put on a pleasant face. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Kitamura, sir. Perhaps His Majesty-”

“If _the High Council_ were to find out that the Princess is _missing_ , what kind of reaction do you think they’d have?” Kitamura asked, stopping to glower before her.

In truth, Hayami didn’t know. She’d never had the pleasure of meeting His Majesty or the Councilmembers in person- her appointment to Minister from Minister's Secretary had been recent, and even then no mere Minister was granted an audience with the King. In her own way she admired him. After the death of the last Queen he’d been appointed immediately, and taken so smoothly to the role that the transition period had been almost non-existent.

He resembled the First King- not that she could make the assumption based on appearances, but rather in the way he spoke, in the strength of his voice. He’d inspired her since she was fourteen years old, just a chambermaid for the Princess. (And if she still carried the occasional fantasy of catching his eye, well. No one needed be privy to that but she and herself.)

“It would be a disaster,” Kitamura said, answering his own question, apparently done with waiting for Hayami’s. “We’d lose our heads if he found out she was off trapising in the dark, alone!”

Hayami very carefully did not laugh in Kitamura’s face, though the _her_ of only a few years ago would have been unable to control herself. Aoi was a much smarter girl than anyone on the Council or in the Palace gave her credit for- His Majesty included. She’d helped Aoi out the window herself, those first few years. “Then we should find her quickly, sir.”

“If _you_ don’t know where she is… Ridiculous,” Kitamura spluttered, “Absolutely ridiculous. First this deadline, then the missing Princess… At least the guard won’t go running off in the face of all this nonsense. And we’ll have Onizuka, at least…”

Kitamura turned on his heel and stomped back off down the hall, leaving a frazzled Hayami to sigh and tuck a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. The royal guard had been stationed outside Aoi’s rooms, tonight. If she’d disappeared even after all this…

 _Be safe, Princess,_ thought Hayami, and returned quickly to the Minister’s council, clutching records in hand and recalling soft all the dreams Aoi had recounted in her youth of being spirited away. _Be strong, and be safe._

* * *

“This is where they are?” Aoi asked, glancing up and down the empty street. There was hardly a figure in sight. Aoi had never before been to this part of Den City- the homes here were all in the old style, freestanding buildings of dried clay brick and straw-thatched roofs. She’d hardly though places like this still existed, in the capital city. Out near the mountains of Vrains, perhaps, but hardly here in the modern world.

Holly flit from her shoulder, cutting sharp down the street towards a large alleyway right near the border wall. Aoi followed, sensing Bella’s presence and running towards it. The boy followed at a slower pace, but Aoi knew instinctive what he was planning to do. She left him to it- an unspoken plan was better than none at all.

“Stop right there, Sentinel,” Aoi said, stepping alone into the alleyway. She knew she cut a slight figure like this, dressed only in the shirt she wore to sleep and shorts, far from her usual layered kimono, but the moonlight cast her shadow long to the feet of the Sentinel and his companion.

The Sentinel didn’t so much as spare her a pleasantry, only launched a gust of wind at her that sang shrill through the alley.

This time, Aoi was prepared- she raised a hand and her shield sprang to life before her, creased convex down the center. She took a step forwards, and the wind ran off her without so much as rustling her clothes.

“Going to have to do a little better than that,” she said, and with a flick of her wrist the shield shattered down into jagged fragments, glinting like shards of glass. With another flick they soared towards the Sentinel, cutting through the wind with a shriek. A few of the smaller pieces were blown to the side, shattering against the dirt or the brick- but the majority of them flew true. The Sentinel and his companion leaped to the side of the narrow alley, avoiding them narrowly as they shattered.

Aoi clapped her hands together and withdrew her whip, snapping it at the Sentinel. He couldn’t evade without leaving it to strike the man behind him- he deflected with a strike against his arm, a crack that would have been sickening, had it been human bone. With his free hand he grabbed the end of her whip before it recoiled. He tugged, but Aoi let go. It dissolved into sparks of silver and blue that returned soft to her hand, reforming her ring.

Aoi staggered off-balance just a moment. It was enough for the Sentinel to strike, driving the winds towards her as the ivy crawling up the sides of the buildings flailed, leaves shredded to pieces that flew towards her face. The Sentinel followed; she’d have no time to dodge.

“Spectre!” In a flash the boy stood before her, a whirl of petals falling to the ground in a crescent around them. Vines burst out from the ivy covering the walls of the old brick alley, wrapping themselves tight around the Sentinel’s ankles and pulling his momentum out from under him, dragging him fast to the ground. He hit the ground with a roll, but the vines travelled with him, a second set shooting out from the ground to seize his wrists.

Aoi grinned- they had him. It was just a matter of his companion, now. She stepped past Spectre and brought forth her whip again. The Sentinel’s companion was a man from whom Aoi sensed little power- she caught the low silver glimmer of a chain around his neck, but that didn’t seem to be active magic.

That left only one thing: the gauntlet on his right wrist. No matter which way she looked at it, that was the most dangerous thing about him. Aoi sent her whip ready to snap at his arm as the Sentinel cried a protest, wind kicking up useless with Spectre’s magic suppressing it-

The man lifted his right arm, as if to block Aoi’s strike with the gauntlet. A black light burst out from its center, from the purple gem at its heart. It was not bright, not blinding as the angels that were stationed around the city, yet Aoi still felt like she had to cover her eyes. She ducked beneath her free arm, glancing over at Spectre in an urge for him to do something-

But Spectre was staring down at his vines as they dissolved down into flecks of red, magic sparking as he tried to reinforce them to no avail.

“What?” Spectre bit out as the black light ate away at him, curling up the vines of his wings and counter to the blue veins pulsing under his skin. And Spectre vanished. Not in the slow, deliberate way that he’d appeared in her room, or how he’d pulled her though space from the Palace to the city. This was as watching him be pulled away piece by piece- fragments of flesh and bone and wing peeling away from his body, bone giving way to nothingness- then the last half of him all at once. Vanished. Aoi blinked-

And then something in the air burst, radiating a heat that seared the air from Aoi’s lungs. It send her hurtling backwards, towards the side of one of the buildings. She summoned up a shield in just enough time to keep her from slamming into the wall, but the impact was still harsh- though she begged her shields to soften, they hardly responded.

Her shoulders hit hard against the shield, then the back of her head, and Aoi could only slump to the ground against the ringing of an old, haunted melody in her ears.

Her vision went blurry, black sparks closing in one by one from the edges even as Aoi blinked against them, struggling to push herself to her feet with limbs that felt strong as a ragdoll. She saw clearly the Sentinel and his companion turn to vault over the low fence of the alley before the darkness closed in and took her.

(She did not dream, in that brief moment of unconsciousness. But she did see a vision, something hazy and soft and nostalgic, though it was nothing she’d remembered before her eyes slipped closed.

A boy, a graveyard, dead eyes staring down at her. A hand in hers. Defiance. The desire to break, to _save._ They’d come so far. From that mouth, a question falling silent- _Why aren’t you afraid?_ )

Aoi groaned and blinked away the pounding in her head. She reached back where the ache was, tapping gentle and expecting blood- but all she felt were the start of a few tangles in her short hair and what might become a bump, later on.

She pushed herself up from the ground, ignoring the spinning world as she regained her balance. It only took a moment- though she didn’t feel particularly hurt, her first step slanted her left. Aoi frowned and took deep breaths, trying to steady herself as she looked for Spectre.

She hadn’t been out for long- a few minutes at most- but a few minutes was long enough for their targets to have vanished from sight.

Dawn was about to break; time was running out for the both of them, but especially for her. She wouldn’t underestimate Spectre enough to think he wouldn’t hold that over her- she could hope only that his urgency was the same as hers.

Aoi took a few steps out into the street, with each one feeling her strength return to her. Indistinct came the sound of Holly and Bella chattering to her, and indeed from the eaves of one of the houses Holly flew down to land on her shoulder, whispering up to her in hums and trills.

Not a second later did Spectre appear before her, still looking as if he was trying to calm his expression down from visible anger, ending with something more like practiced irritation.

“My apologies,” Spectre said, with a dip of his head that was definitely a bit bitter, “I didn’t expect for his companion to be able to wield the Ignis’ power.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aoi replied, brushing the last of the dust from her pants and smearing the mud from her hands away. She had more clothes; it hardly mattered to her if she lost a pair of them. She glanced back up at Spectre. “Bella is still following them. They’re… heading towards the Palace. It would be best if we finish this off quickly.”

“Indeed.” Again Spectre held out his hand, and again Aoi took it- stepping off together towards the Palace, vanished before their feet so much as brushed the ground.

* * *

As the dawn broke pink and soft behind the clouded sky, the lights gathered around the city walls descended- not so much landing gently with the flutter of wings so much as crashing down into the Palace courtyard in streaks of light and power, nearly pushing Go off his feet again with the force of it. It kicked up the earth at their feet, and blades of neatly-trimmed grass danced away, blown around Go’s ankles.

Four of them. Faces pale as death, pulsing veins and plucked-over wings… Their spindly, thin forms unnerved Go, though he’d never show it- he met their mismatched gazes with a proud one of his own. The angel at Revolver’s left met it, one eye of grey and one of burning red, pulsing down through him in place of veins. Go thought that in his gaze there was perhaps a warning, but he had no intention of heeding it.

“Your time has expired,” said Revolver, angling his head up towards the King and Council. “Our sole demand is the Dark Ignis- a very small price to pay for the continued existence of your Kingdom. Don’t you agree?”

The King spoke, voice echoing down over the courtyard from his place in the balcony. “We bind you to a War Game. We pledge our three heroes forth with the wager of the Ignis, and in return, your angels must not touch the people of my Kingdom. This is the invitation that you angels have put down as Knights of Hanoi, and that we of Sol invoke.”

“And we would be pleased to accept… If you still possessed the Ignis,” Revolver said, his expression sharpening down to the points of smirking teeth.

Something in the early morning calm- or perhaps in the self-assured tension- snapped. “ _What?_ ”

Behind him Go could hear the uproar of the High Council- only whispers and shuffling, but he dared not turn his head away from the angels, not when their power was growing dangerous in the air. If the war game was void, then the angels had free reign to do as they pleased. Go could think of few things more dangerous. He clenched his hands into fists and readied himself for a fight.

Revolver laughed. “Have you not realized? The excuse for a god you’d been keeping captive all these centuries has been stolen from its cage. It’s been missing for quite a while, now.”

One of the council spoke, voice trembling with rage. “So your time limit-”

“Was a test, yes. That the pathetic lot of you have failed spectacularly.” Revolver’s tone pierced more devastating than a bullet. The council went silent behind him, struck by the guillotine of realization. Revolver took a moment to seemingly relish in their lack of retort. Then, a command- “Vyra.”

The angel that burned in orange to Revolver’s right raised one hand to the sky. In her left appeared a bow, arrow notched tight against it as she pulled the string down with her right. It only took a moment- no one could do so much as raise a hand to stop her before she’d released her fingers on the string. The arrow flew, cutting a vector through the air to pierce the base of a cloud. It hovered there a moment in that unearthly orange, pinning the cloud in place as it turned from white to grey- as the grey spread across the clouded sky with a low rumble of thunder.

The arrow burst- and so too did the sky. A single bolt of lightning was their only warning as it tore jagged claws across the sky and let loose the rains.

The first of it came down thick, all at once, soaking through his clothes in an instant before it slowed, began to fall as proper drops.

The rain bit at his exposed skin, scoring burning drops down his shoulders and arms- not quite sizzling, but certainly acidic. Only then did Go finally step back, into the shelter of the overhang atop which the King stood. He threw his magic against that of the pendant’s, a clear sign that he wouldn’t be trifled with if the angels standing unaffected by the rain dared make an attack on the Palace.

The angels moved, but not in the direction of the Palace- instead a yellow light burst from another one of them, radiating out in a circle. Go covered his face with his arms as it passed over him, expecting some sort of shock to his bristling skin, or a slow erosion around his magic- but nothing came.

The circle expanded slowly- over the Palace, down the slope of the hill. It rested a pulsing, sickly color atop the city walls, carving a waxing crescent out into the ocean- and then faded, though the rain still fell slow over the city.

They had reached an impasse- no man could touch the angels beneath the rain, nor did the angels make any move for the King or Council, who Go hoped had retreated inside by now. The Royal Guard, spurred by an order Go hadn’t heard and protected by their metal armor, began to creep in time around the courtyard- as if encircling the angels would do them any good.

Go braced himself, thinking he’d have to simply brace the rain-

And then the gates crashed open. The bang of them against the brick echoed loud over the courtyard, sending even the angels glancing its direction as the rain ceased, a sudden, unnatural stop. The Sentinel raced into the courtyard, dodging jagged fragments of blue magic  that slammed themselves sharp into the ground as he did. The Princess followed not far behind, clothes streaked with dirt and magic swelling along its boundaries. The fragments embedded in the ground raised themselves up as she passed, launching themselves again at the Sentinel with unspoken command.  

“Come to rejoin your comrades, huh?” Go yelled, but it was drowned out by the rush of the wind that burst from the Sentinel’s feet as he pulled to a stop before the platform the angels stood atop. The Princess’ magic was devoured by the wind, and she was forced to a halt as the wind battered her, nearly throwing her to the side.

Said the Sentinel, his words ringing out clear even in the midst of his storm- “I brought the Ignis.”


	10. IX [The Ones Who Know]

“I brought the Ignis,” Playmaker said, “and I’m binding you to the terms of the war game.”

It was already far too late for that- surely Playmaker had to know that just as well as the rest of the city in the wake of Vyra and Genome’s curses. But very well, he’d allow it. Whatever game the Sentinel was playing, Revolver wouldn’t mind seeing it through.

“Once again,” said Revolver, surveying the scene that had erupted into chaos before him, “I’d be nothing but pleased to accept. If that were the real Ignis, of course.”

The gauntlet on Playmaker’s wrist gleamed silver and gold in the early morning sun. The eye at its center flickered open, blinking in an approximation of life. When it spoke, its words were petulant as a child. “What do you mean, huh? I’m right here!”

Revolver laughed. It was a clever imitation. Certainly he could sense its presence nearby, but it was as an echo. The bulk of its power had already moved somewhere else. Still, it was good imitation work- mind magic was a rare ability even for strong witches, built up only over a lifetime. To have created an imitation Ignis from only a day’s time… Revolver would give its creator his grudging respect. He locked eyes with Playmaker. “You and I both know that’s not true, now isn’t it? An imitation might fool a man, but you forget what we are.”

Playmaker’s expression crumbled into a frown; Revolver would be lying if he said there wasn’t any satisfaction in that. He continued- “Still, how kind of you to return to us. There are still terms we need to discuss. Don’t think you can avoid our next summons.”

Playmaker’s eyes narrowed with the threat, but there were greater matters at hand- Revolver turned his head away, searching for the source of the echo. The real Ignis was close. The question was only who possessed it- or who it was possessing, perhaps. But surely in the latter case the signature would be stronger.

The Princess? Revolver could count her out without a second glance her direction. Playmaker… Revolver doubted he would try and pull such a ploy, and knew for certain that he wouldn’t have been able to quell all traces of the Ignis in such little time. He’d possessed no trace of it within Spectre’s cage. The _King_ was but a pawn unaware, and the human was but that.

The royal guard once again began to move in the silence, Playmaker unwilling to back down after his gambit had failed and Revolver unwilling to accept a mockery of conditions. Likely someone thought they could capitalize by moving in on both.

Revolver watched as they marched forth in unison, as an insignificant shadow of a man reached out to take hold of the Princess, dragging her back behind that pathetic excuse for a defensive line. But he realized, then. There was one piece still missing from the stage- one who was likely taking advantage of everything this situation had to offer. _Time_ , thought Revolver, _for a meeting with an old enemy._

He caught Spectre’s eye from where he stood at the courtyard gates, blocking Playmaker’s escape. They’d still have to speak terms with Playmaker- sooner rather than later- but the matter of the Ignis was more urgent. “Spectre,” he called, “with me.”

“As you wish,” Spectre replied, at his side in a moment and a flash of power. Revolver inclined his head towards the remaining three Knights, and they took their departure in three matching flashes of light- pale yellow and vibrant orange flanking a gradient red.

He murmured low into Spectre’s ear their destination, and before he could so much as blink they were gone.

* * *

“Man, this place is gloomy! Do you think it’s always this way, or just because of the angels?”

“Please be quiet,” Ema hissed, slapping a gloved palm over the eye of the Ignis. She doubted that the Ignis could feel it, though no small part of her hoped that he could. The way his voice bounced shrill over the broad stone of the Palace foundations would have everyone in the basement after them if there was anyone still here.

Even the thick fabric of her glove did nothing to muffle him.“I’m just saying! Could stand to liven up this place a little. What’s the point of a Palace if everyone’s living in the dark?”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t know the meaning of infiltration,” replied Ema, and turned another corner. This part of the basement was sparsely decorated- Ema imagined that most of the flowered vases and woodblock prints sitting atop the occasional rounded table had been brought in by the servants in an effort to brighten up the gloomy storage halls.

“It’s fine, right? No one’s around to hear!” Ema hated to admit that the Ignis was right, especially not after she’d spent the last few minutes since slipping through the back doors of the Palace asking him to be quiet, but she had to pick and choose her battles, and it seemed as if she was picking an awful lot of them to fight, as of late. Though when it involved her treasures, Ema thought she was justified in it.

Ema pressed herself into the wall as the sound of boots over the stone floor echoed on the cross- strong, uniform. The royal guard. The Ignis, it seemed, at least knew how to be quiet when his life was at stake. There wasn’t so much as a peep from him as the guards passed, missing Ema on the wall with gazes that didn’t spare a glance down the side hall. Laziness in their hollow heads- or, Ema thought, more likely an oversight in their training. No matter. She muttered, soft as an exhale- “They’re a bit terrible at their job, aren’t they?”

The Ignis thankfully stayed quiet, eye shut to keep its unnatural purple glow from alerting anyone.

Once their steps had faded and turned another corner, Ema continued down the hall, scurrying after them at a fair distance. If memory served, then the council chambers were directly above her, which would place the throne room not one floor up and not terribly far to the left.

“You’d think they’d train them to have some brains,” said the Ignis finally, considerably quieter this time. Ema hummed nonchalant agreement, and pushed open the door to the stairwell.

Stairwells were always the trickiest part of an infiltration of this scale- with the way sounds echoed up and down them, it grew difficult to tell just how many flights above or below someone actually was. And this one was a tiny thing, as far as they went, curling tight to the walls without so much as an arm of space to pass someone headed the other direction. There were no windows, and the steps were steep; Ema was not one for claustrophobia, but despite the silence from above she felt only unease.

Her steps were heavier than usual as she ascended, and it was difficult to keep the soles of her boots from making sound against the worn-down stone. But she couldn’t fail. Ema doubled down her concentration and curved up the flight of stairs towards the ground floor.

She curled up them without incident, not so much as a stumble or a scuff of her sole against the stone. The ground floor opened into a small reception area, done up in royal blue and white. Traces of gold glinted amongst the rafters, gilded circuit runes meant to provide protection- no magic in them, just millenia-old superstition and a fairy tale to support them. Ema slipped out into the hall, watching careful for signs of activity but finding none. She dodged the windows that looked out over the courtyard, ducking low beneath them towards the middle of the hall.

Exactly as she’d thought- before her were the throne room doors. They were grand, arched things, bordering on gaudy even to her. Carved into them were images of the First King and the Blue Angel, scenes pulled directly from the fairy tale embellished in gold before her eyes. Ema mostly ignored them- what was of importance to her was the lock. To the eye it looked normal, a simple matter of the proper key twisted into proper place- but Ema knew better. Anyone with magic would have been able to sense the layers of protection embedded into it, and so would a fair number of people almost blind to their sixth sense. Ema put her palm up against the lock, and let the blood seeping out from under her glove do its work.

The firefly drops of it weren’t autonomous entities. Rather, they allowed Ema to see the lines upon which the magic had been set, the old relics of circuits that had long since been destroyed- images like thoughts in the back of her mind that she picked apart one by one, drop of blood by drop of blood.

“So, is it working?”

“Quiet, you.”

Ema was somewhere around forty-three when she lost count and started to concentrate only on pushing through the layers of magic as quickly as possible. She’d expected a challenge, though in reality the runes the council had used were exceedingly simple- but in numbers like this, it was time consuming, no matter how fast she worked. She was beginning to feel light-headed. Half of her instinct was telling her to give up the game now, before someone turned the corner and caught her feverish and dizzy. The other half sternly reminded her that she was never getting a better opportunity than this.

Rain lashed against the windows adjacent. Ema bit her lip. Either they’d failed, or her deception had been uncovered. She should have put more power into the fake- but then she risked her final trump card, the one thing that she mustn’t be forced to play.

The Ignis’ eye twitched from the window to her and back. He said, uselessly- “Hey, Ghost Girl… I think that distraction of yours hit its time limit.”

The wave of yellow light hit not a moment later, washing over Ema and casting her complexion even sicklier in contrast. The brief glance she caught of herself in the window was enough to make her wish she’d turned her head away faster. And through it all the brand on her neck screamed, sending jolts down her spine that she had to force herself to ignore, still breaking through the runes one by one. More blood trailed from beside her nails, and Ema grimaced but kept at it. Each one that she broke was getting easier, was crumbling faster than the one before as she worked her way back through the layers.

The Ignis continued to be unhelpful. “You’re not looking so good. Are you really gonna be okay here? If you’re not then let’s just call it quits now.”

“Your name,” said Ema, flatly pleasant, “is going to be _Ai_. So you can go die of fever once we’re done here.”

“No matter which way you look at it, you’re the one going to die of fever, aren’t you?” Ai snapped back, and Ema couldn’t truthfully deny it. The lock on the throne room doors was by and far the most complicated lock she’d ever tried to force open with her magic, built on generations of Zaizen magic and supplemented through the years with that of the Councilmembers. But abruptly did Ema hit a turning point. The last few layers of protection were the hardest- but once they fell away to the original heart of the lock, Ema undid it with no more thought than a snap of her fingers.

The doors swung open. Quickly, but without sound- her blood on the hinges and on the portion of the door that scraped the stone ensured that. A rush of air outwards met her- slightly musty, mostly _contained_. And Ema didn’t doubt that- there were few that were allowed inside, and even fewer a reason for them to enter. Sol hardly had relations with Vrains, these days, and envoys from distant Domino or Heartland or Maiami were few and far between.

Ema stood a while in the entryway, taking the throne room in. It was grand in any sense, built up and enclosed from the old days where only shutters had closed it off from the courtyard. It was done all in cool grey stone, and blue tapestries sewn gold with the royal crest fluttered on the walls with the sudden rush of air.

And the throne room was empty. Ema hadn’t expected any less- she wouldn’t have asked a favor if she didn’t imagine that it would pay off in one way or another- but it was… empty. Hollow. Not just with the absence of guards or His Majesty, but with a creeping sense of something forlorn.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” asked Ai, “Let’s get whatever you’re here for then get out. You were the one all worried about someone hearing us, right?”

Ema shook herself from her stupor and stepped forth, into the throne room. Ai was right, no matter how much she’d hate to admit it. How much did it matter, she thought, whether rulers used the throne room or preferred to do internal business in the council rooms scattered about the palace? It certainly had no bearing on what she was about to do.

Ema walked slowly up to the throne. It was the ancestral throne of the Zaizens- retouched from time to time, repainted in gilded silver and blue,cushions replaced every few years- but she recognized it as the priceless piece it was. Ema trailed a slow finger over the arm of it, dried blood flaking from her finger off onto the wood.

“Did you really have a pl-” Ai stopped immediately as the room’s atmosphere shifted from cold to dangerously warm, the sharpness of a burning gaze on her back. Ema knew before she turned who she’d see. She turned all the same- it wasn’t as if she had a choice in the matter.

“Ghost Girl,” said Revolver, standing tall in the middle of the throne room, “It’s always a pleasure to see you again.”

Ema scoffed, holding her hands crossed careful behind her back as she watched him approach. Slow, measured steps, as if the world had narrowed down to just the set of them in this room. As if he had all the time in the world- and Ema supposed he did. He wasn't burning in the same way as her. His deadlines were but tests to while away the time- to Ema, the voice whispering pleas for her to  _hurry_ in the back of her mind was absolute. 

“I wish I could say the same,” Ema said, skirting just to the right to stand before the throne proper, “But you know, I really should be going now. They might have a hard time with you, but poor old me is going to have a bad time if I’m caught lurking around here.”

Revolver only smirked. Spectre stood blocking the doors, and Ema doubted that there was room in the rafters to escape- not that she had the wings to fly up to them anyway. She’d make a break for the door, if that wouldn’t put her directly between her two enemies- and everyone in the room knew it. She was trapped; this time there would be no escape.

“Then we’ll have to make sure that you aren’t caught,” said Revolver, magic flaring with every vestige of suppressed power- _no_ , thought Ema, _he’s underestimating me_.

Compared to the power his angels outside had released, the aura radiating about him now was nothing. Still did it send a spike of worry though her, a terrible spring of panic that she simply couldn’t fight when faced with the one situation she’d wanted most to avoid. Not when that magic was biting and  _wrong,_ even from across the room. Ema forced herself to breathe even, to keep her thoughts clear. She only had one path out of here, and she couldn’t afford to lose it in her sights.

“Don’t bother trying to hide it. I’ll split you cleanly from the Ignis, Ghost Girl,” said Revolver, and Ema knew by the sharp and sweeping motion of his arms what was coming the moment before it struck. A holy barrier, his mirror force- Ema almost laughed. To think that anything from Hanoi’s- from his _-_ hands could be so worthy enough to be called _holy_. She would have, had the mirror not materialized itself in a flash of white light the moment she thought to be bold enough to do it.

With her right hand Ema shielded her eyes, preventing the white light from temporarily burning away her sight. Still did she have to blink away the afterglow as she descended the steps one by one, coming down from the throne to face Revolver properly.

The mirror was a beautiful thing; it was radiant with a faint blue light and displayed Ema in her entirety. But it was not Ema as she saw herself, as she so delicately arranged herself each morning, the evenings before a job.

The Ema reflected in the mirror was but a parody of herself, a naive woman with wide eyes and black pouring from the open wounds across her shoulders, her chest. Ema scowled, stepping closer to her reflection, to Revolver whose glowing eyes behind his mask she could still see just beyond the transparant end of the mirror. Her reflection mimed stepping forth, still with those doe-sweet eyes looking so close to tears. Blood black as her current clothes stained the fabric of her counterpart’s white dress, hanging off her in tatters.

Ema, in a terrible habit she wouldn’t want to start, clenched her teeth, curled her hands into fists, blood trailing down her wrists. She wanted to smash it into pieces, to prove that in no imitation was she that weak- but she couldn’t let the instinctive panic get the best of her. Not now.

The space between them was short, now. Her reflection in the mirror reached out a hand, white glove pressing through the thin sheen of blue-white to curl into the fabric of reality. Behind the rippling mirror Revolver smirked, obviously thinking that she’d been caught in the illusion. But no one who’d seen his power had forgotten it, and Ema wasn’t so foolish as to fall for the same trap twice. Around her wrists, Ema’s blood began to dance in an intricate swirl, cutting sharp corners and weaving itself into circuits.

Her reflection in the mirror matched her final step, bare foot breaking free of the mirror with another rippling wave. Ema steadied herself and mimicked the reflection’s teary-eyed stare. She only had one shot at this.

She lifted her right hand to meet her reflection’s, bloody fingers reaching out to meet ones stained black beneath tattered gloves. Ema moved careful, tentative and as if captivated by the worst day of her life- then surged forwards as the blood around her wrist shone with magic, green and gold against the black and white as her hand dove through that of her reflection’s and scattered it down to drops of mist.

“What?” Revolver bit out, and tried to step back, to put distance between them for his retaliation as Ema crashed through the empty mirror frame of her own volition. The moment she broke through and felt the mist settle on her eyelashes, Ema hissed and fought it with everything she had- it was impossible to avoid the effects of the mirror once one had passed through, but she could delay it for just long enough. Ema seized Revolver by the collar, pulling him down with her right hand even as his own hands came up to try and shove her away.

A flash of blue came, vines whipping towards them- but they didn’t so much as brush the air around them, repelled by a thin green barrier. Revolver’s hands wrapped around her arm, still trying to shove her off. He had to have been counting the seconds; Ema relished in the subtle widening of his eyes when he doubtless realized what she’d done.

“If I’m going down to hell,” said Ema, brandishing the gauntlet on her left wrist, Ai staring up at Revolver with what she imagined to be glee- “Then I’m dragging you back down with me.”

“Foolish,” said Revolver, trying to pull away- but Ema wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t be moved. All at once she stopped resisting, and all at once the three of them vanished, vision fading down to black as they crossed the planes of reality.

And even without sense, even with the brand still weighing her down- Ema smiled.


	11. X [Course of Action]

“Let _go_ of me,” demanded the Princess, dragged away rough by the arm. Revolver and Spectre vanished, as did the rest of the angels. The royal guard formed a semi-circle, pushing past the man and the Princess as Go Onizuka began to cross the courtyard.They were moving in on the next most likely target, and Yusaku wasn’t eager to find out what they made of his attempt at bargaining- nor did it seem that now was the time for negotiation.

Yusaku glanced away, using the one moment he had to consider his options. Kusanagi beckoned from the shadows of the still-open gate- Yusaku had well and truly broken it open by the hinges when he’d burst in, gambling on a gambit that had fallen through. The royal guard continued in, closing tight their half-circle with Go filling the open space. His only choice, then, if he didn’t want to turn this into a battle.  

Yusaku broke for it, turning on his heel with a gust of wind that sent two of the royal guard crashing into their peers as Yusaku pushed past, their swords clattering to the ground as the wind whipped around their wrists.

“Stop!” yelled Go from behind him, his feet pounding against the stone behind Yusaku. He threw wind behind him blindly as he burst through the open gates, joining Kusanagi in a sprint.

“Will you be okay?” he asked, though Kusanagi didn’t spare the breath to reply to him. Behind them the magic Yusaku had grown to register as distinctly Onizuka’s pendant began to pulse, and he knew that they wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter how fast they barrelled down one of Den City’s main streets. They couldn’t lose someone so determined on a straight shot.

“This way,” Yusaku said, and all but pulled Kusanagi down the first crossroad he saw. It was a small little thing, deserted with the hour and looking as if it saw nothing more strenuous than foot traffic. Boxes were stacked neatly in piles before shops that had yet to open for the day, and Yusaku blew them down and to pieces behind them with a series of thuds. It wouldn’t do much to slow Go down, but it would do just enough to let them make a turn and vanish out of sight.

They wove their way down through the streets, Yusaku leading them vaguely in the direction he thought Ghost Girl’s hideout to be. He wasn’t sure, but Kusanagi made no protest as Yusaku wound them though another back alley, slipping around a small wagon wedged into the space and listening to the sounds of pursuit rounding the corner largely pass them by.

This alley was barred off by a fence at its furthest end; Yusaku scaled it quickly and reached down a helping hand to Kusanagi, who took it with grit teeth but no complaint as it doubtless pulled at his wound. A lesser man surely would have collapsed, by now.

They ran a few more blocks this way, curling down though side streets and alleys as their pursuers ran blind behind them. Kusanagi was still injured; though he was hiding it well, Yusaku knew that the two of them wouldn’t be able to outrun Onizuka much longer. Yusaku slowed from a few paces ahead, glancing up and down the empty street. The sounds of their pursuers had faded, but they were still very much present- on the parallel street, Yusaku thought, a few dozen meters back. Ghost Girl’s second charm was doing its job as well as the first; now it was only a matter of finding a place to hide until the clamor died down or night fell again.

He didn’t recognize this area, a place with single story houses almost like the shack he’d called home in the cemetery, some in obviously better shape than others with their sagging roofs. Anywhere else he’d call them abandoned, but in Den City, he was sure that someone lived in each and every one of them. And, as if summoned by his thoughts-

“Hey,” came a voice, a hoarse whisper from a cracked-open door, “Hey, over here.”

Yusaku glanced towards the door, and it opened further with a creak of hinges. A single green eye peered out at them, pale in the rapidly lightening morning. “Who are you?”

The eye blinked, and its owner scoffed. “Come on, hurry up! You’re running from that Sentinel, right? You can hide in here for a little while. It’s safe!”

Yusaku and Kusanagi exchanged a glance- whatever strange offer this was, it didn’t seem to be a trap. It was too glaringly obvious, and too obviously foolish. With a nod in sync, they stepped across the street, towards the small box of a house. The door opened all the way, and was closed swiftly not a moment after Yusaku and Kusanagi had cleared it. A figure- short, self-assured but simultaneously a bit twitchy- ushered them in to the main area of the house. It was barren in a different way than Ghost Girl’s- hers was a deliberate absence of personality, of identifying features that could be used against her later. This was the kind that Yusaku was more familiar with, an emptiness that spoke of using what one found from whatever source they could to make something real.

“So, who do we have to thank for sheltering us?” Kusanagi asked, naturally falling in to lead the conversation.

“You don’t recognize me?” The young man looked almost comically put-out. He threw out a few cushions for them to sit down around his rickety low table to disguise his expression, just a step too put-out and a step too indignant to be called a pout.

“We’re from out of town,” said Kusanagi smoothly, “Came in to catch a boat to Domino, but I doubt that’s going to happen, now. Then we thought we’d go see what was going on, see if we could get a spot to see the war games, you know. And, well...”

“Got caught up in trouble? Well, don’t worry. Lonely Brave never turns his back on those in need,” said the young man with a grin and a puffed-up chest. He held out his hand in greeting. “Shima Naoki, next hero of Den City.”

Yusaku, after a moment of staring blankly at it, assuming that Kusanagi would take it, reached out. Shima gripped it tight and gave it two enthusiastic shakes, to which Yusaku let himself be pulled along. Shima grinned. “You were running, right? Let me get you guys a drink.”

Yusaku and Kusanagi sat side by side on one side of the low table as Shima busied himself with the small icebox in the corner of the room.

They exchanged a long glance, many things going unspoken- they’d done this routine a hundred times before, scattered across the past two years. He’d go along with whatever Kusanagi said- not that he ever made it difficult for Yusaku.

Shima returned after a moment with a chipped tray and three mismatched glasses. He almost spilled the tray as he took the first glass out to set before Yusaku, but balanced it just in time to send them a sheepish smile instead of an apology.

It was cool tea- room temperature, really- but neither of them saw fit to protest some slight of hospitality. Yusaku tasted it- sweet, not the cheap, thin tea that he’d expected, nor the bitter tea favored by those with the money for it. Yusaku took another sip, and decided he liked it.

“So,” said Shima, glancing between them with undisguised interest as he sat down, “I’ve been meaning to ask, but… What are your names, exactly?”

“I’m Kusanagi Shoichi, and this is my little brother, Yusaku. We’re travelling witches from Vrains.”

Shima’s eyes went wide, and he leaned over the table to take them in. “Ohhh, from Vrains, huh? That means you know about the angels, right?”

Kusanagi shrugged, and Yusaku almost envied how natural the lie looked. “Not much more than the average witch. Or the average person, really. Researching anything about the angels is a dangerous game.”

“True, true,” said Shima, though Yusaku doubted that he was a witch, or had done much research on angels at all before this very moment. “You can’t be too careful. When you’re not a hero, of course.”

Kusanagi didn’t reply, just nodded sagely. Yusaku took another sip of tea.

“But you know,” started Shima, “what was up with that light? Summoning rain isn’t all that scary. Magic light wasn’t much of anything either. I expected something, I dunno, more impressive from all those angels.”

Yusaku guessed he hadn’t been outside to feel the acidic bite of it against his skin. He glanced out the small gap between the curtain and the window, where he could see the smallest sliver of street- deserted, unnaturally quiet. The contrast from the bustle of it he’d experienced the day before was immense.

Kusanagi set down his glass with a small clink against the table. “You know the legend of the angels, don’t you? About the original four and what they represent.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” replied Shima. Yusaku knew it too- the tale was as much a children’s story as the First King and the Blue Angel, or the witch of curses, or half a dozen others Yusaku could think of. He remembered someone reciting it to him, in a world so far away it felt like a lifetime ago-

_This was the story of the Knights of Hanoi, made holy by noble ambition and elevated to the heavens with the majesty of their power. Angels ancient, angels holy, there to witness the birth of the Ignises and there to rest upon their shoulders the weight of the world. United under one, then a son, bound forever in combat with the First King and the traitor._

_And of the Hanoi-_

_First came the angel draped in orange, cut deft from the arrow of plague. Born of the rats and the gutter filth, rose fast to the first of the Order of White. The youngest, the kindest, the one who could shatter the world._

_Then came the angel of red, burning fast from the flame of the first. The oldest, the wisest, born of twin houses due to fall. Burned too bright, for too long; saw the new world and did not falter at its call._

_Third came the angel of yellow, weighing fast the lives of fragile men in their scales. The final and the fringe, amongst the Hanoi no less revered. The instigator, the keeper of lives, truths eat away truths in the competition of lies._

_And last of all came the one pale as a corpse, with unbeating heart as leader of the war. The second, the casualty, face hidden from the sun. The lost child, the fragment, the last piece of soul-_

_Protectors, the four of them all._

The voice he remembered it in was not one that he knew. Yusaku wondered just who else he’d forgotten in his sewn-together patchwork of memories.

“That last one. That’s a Sentinel, right?” Shima asked, squirming in his seat. He took a nervous, loud slurp of tea. But no Sentinel could be an angel. Not when an angel possessed a soul.

“Death,” said Yusaku, “the last one is death.”

“So you mean,” said Shima, clutching the small cup in his hands so hard Yusaku thought he might shatter it them and there, “You mean, those angels, they could, could actually, really-”

“End the world? Probably,” said Kusanagi, a little apologetic. Shima nervously took a loud sip of his tea, again. “But I’m sure the King and the Princess and that Go Onizuka will stop them.”

“And Lonely Brave will be there to help,” said Shima, though it was less sure than his declaration had been when they’d first met. But Yusaku was hardly listening.

There were originally supposed to be four angels, the four that could end the world in possession of an Ignis. Then why, Yusaku wondered, had there been five angels? Four in the courtyard, facing down the royal guard and the shadows of the King and Council that had retreated inside just before Yusaku had made his move. Then the one chasing him, the one that the Crown Princess called _Spectre_. One for each of the Ignises, perhaps. But if that was the case, then where was the sixth-

Yusaku clutched at his head, elbows landing hard on the table and sending an empty cup toppling to its side. He hadn’t felt this kind of pain before, like something was trying to claw its way into his mind. It was similar to remembering something he’d forgotten, the way the recollection tore through him- but much, much sharper, and with much more malice.

“Yusaku!” Kusanagi dropped a steadying hand on his shoulders, but the sensation of it was distant, felt as if he was a world away. Shima said something, some sort of question, but by then it had all given way to something else.

A distant rush, the quiet sound of the wind rustling over the grass, through the trees. A bell, clanging loud and terrible over a place that Yusaku knew- or he thought he knew, a place with a castle and a bell and a voice in his ear, whispering through the flames- _Hey. You_.

The world shred itself to pieces. Something reached out and snapped, a burning, bloody red-

_“Yusaku!”_

Yusaku shuddered back to reality at the sound of his name. Kusanagi’s hand was still on his shoulder, the grip of it tight; worried. Yusaku bit out- “Something…”

Something roiled in him unpleasant and curling, blooming in his chest and shaking him to the core, like a beast trying to consume him from the inside out. He steadied himself and tried again.

“Something is moving. Something dangerous. I think it might be death.”

* * *

Aoi sat on the edge of her bed, seething with hands curled into the bedsheets in the absence of a ring to roll around her palm or earrings to curl around her fingers, without bangles to throw against her pillows. _I should be stronger than this. I should be_ stronger _than this, so why-_

She’d trained her magic for years, guided by the secrets of the books and all the years of slow instruction she’d received in the basics of the Zaizen heirlooms. Blood magic was her birthright, passed down from one soul to the next with power enough to fell the heavens, and _yet_ -

Aoi curled her fists tight and resisted the urge to pick a fight with one of Kitamura’s unflappable guards. Now, she didn’t have so much as Holly or Bella or any of the other guardians to whisper her worries to.

A flicker, a sudden breath of sensation, and Aoi realized that she had an alternative. She could feel his presence, now- travelling along with him through the brief moment of aether seemed to have made her sensitive to his magic. She imagined that it worked the other way around, as well. If they were to fight, Aoi knew she’d find that a nuisance of an ability- but right now, it was exactly what she needed.

“You’re there, aren’t you?” Aoi called soft- there were guards just outside her bedroom door, now, and she had no doubt Kitamura would have one of them press their ear up against the door if he thought he could get away with it. Perhaps he already had.

Still, after a moment Spectre appeared, standing again right before her window, still opened from the night. “My apologies for intruding.”

“Don’t bother hiding yourself next time,” she said, forcing her hands to uncurl so she could fold them primly in her lap, “it’s not going to do you any good. What do you want?”

“Simply to talk strategy. It seems that neither of us ended up achieving our goals, today.” He dipped his head, slightly. Aoi was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t so used to disguising contempt and frustration as deference that it had simply become a habit.

“Very well.”

Strategy. That, Aoi could think about. Because while she’d lost many a thing - her jewelry, her _freedom_ \- spurned by Kitamura and the orders of  _Our Noble King as concerned with the safety of the Crown Princess_ , she still held one upper hand. As long as she and Spectre were bound in their contract, then she’d be able to move freely, no matter what restrictions they tried to put on her.

Despite herself, Aoi almost grinned darkly when she asked, “If the Sentinel wasn’t holding the Ignis, then where’s the real one? Just because the two have separated doesn’t nullify our deal, angel.”

“As I’m already aware,” Spectre replied, the barest trace of contempt in his voice as he lifted his head to address Aoi. Only the barest of traces; Aoi would tolerate it. He continued- “It has… temporarily vanished from this plane of existence.”

“It was destroyed?” she asked, knowing that she was wrong. But, much like playing Kitamura through the years, Aoi sensed that she’d get the most out of Spectre through either matching him or playing to his sense of superiority- and unfortunately, even with all the knowledge she’d amassed on magic, the matter of other worlds was one at which an angel simply couldn’t be matched. It was, of course, of their own design. Many a holy blight had come to strike down a talented witch prying too far into what constituted the heavens, the realm after death.

Spectre shook his head. “Not so. Simply crossed them. Summoning your guardians is much the same, just on a much smaller scale.”

But it was a feat nonetheless, knew Aoi. No one of anything other than Zaizen blood had done it. No other soul could handle the task. Spectre continued- “It seems that a woman by the name of Ghost Girl happened to bargain her way into possession of it. From there, she took it down to hell. I’m afraid that if we want the Ignis, we’ll have to summon it back by force.”

“Well,” said Aoi, “if there ever was a combination that could summon up an Ignis from the depths of hell, then it would be a Zaizen and an angel, then wouldn’t it?”

“More than you know,” said Spectre with a practiced laugh, “but it will take time to prepare. I can gather what we need, but purifying a space for it will take six days. There’s a graveyard just outside of Den City. I presume you know of it?”

“It’s not called the Royal Graveyard without reason,” replied Aoi, but Spectre’s reaction was almost disappointingly subdued, just an upwards quirk of his chin and the twitch of an eyebrow.

“Two trips will be necessary. One in the evening three days from now for a purification ritual for those involved, and again in six days for the ceremony itself. You know what’s expected of you, I assume?”

Aoi nodded. Though the Council had yet banned her from blood magic, the purification rituals she knew of. She had to, in the event of the very thing that faced them now- the resurgence of Hanoi. Little was different from the summonings she performed with her guardians- more intricate, the words more complicated, but the route of the magic the same.

“And this puts us where, then?” asked Aoi, changing the topic and expecting Spectre to follow her jump. “The Ignis is out of all our grasps, and you angels still plan to set your plagues upon my city?”

“You did miss the deadline,” replied Spectre dryly, “And I gave you quite a fair chance. To deny that would make you a liar, dear Princess.”

Aoi turned up her nose at the false endearment. A thin smile spread across Spectre’s lips- this is how things would be between them, then. Aoi set her expectations, and thought she hadn’t expected angels to be such petty creatures. “I suppose it’s a good thing then that our contract says nothing about me taking action to defend my Kingdom, now doesn’t it?”

“If you think I’ll whisk you away from your cage to fight, then you’ll find yourself sorely mistaken.” Spectre met her eyes, then, and his expression was the closest thing to outright defiance she thought he could make. She met it without faltering.

“But if we so happen to cross paths with an angel out to harm my city, you have no right to stop me.”

“Correct. Unfortunately,” said Spectre, though he did not look away. He continued, composed again, “Then. If you have nothing else to ask of me, then I’ll be off. The faster I begin our preparations, the sooner you can try to save your Kingdom.”

Spectre half-turned, back towards the window, sunlight spilling over his shoulders and rustling through the thin petals of his wings, casting shadows dappled and strange across the floor, atop her legs.

“Wait,” Aoi said. Spectre stopped, glanced at her over his shoulder.

“Yes?” he said, with the tone of a man who had little time to waste on something so insignificant as her.

“I want to know,” said Aoi, daring Spectre to refuse her, “How exactly do you create a Sentinel?”

* * *

In the hour after the deadline had passed and the first two plagues set upon Den City, the angels congregated atop a grand ship docked at the harbor. It had no occupants save its captain, sleeping peaceful belowdecks, never to know what stood above his head. Vyra sensed so clearly the strong flame of his soul, the burn of his life yet untouched by what they had done. She shivered- the sea breeze was peaceful, cool against Vyra’s already chilled skin.

They stood the three of them like points of a triangle, red and orange and yellow, north, east, and west. It was only a moment before a flash of blue joined them at the south.

Spectre’s face was sullen as he approached. They all knew why- they’d felt it the moment it had happened, a reaction double the strength anticipated and cutting sharp through the fabric of reality. It had disoriented them all, leaving them unsure of exactly what had happened and all the more worried for it.

“Revolver has…” Spectre couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words. Vyra looked upon him softly, and resisted the urge to reach out and smooth down his agitation. She forgot, sometimes, how much younger than the rest of them he was. Centuries had become but a trifling thing, and yet to him they must still have been a marker of time. Even with his manner, and everything he knew… By any terms, he was still a child.

“He’ll be fine,” she said in that impulse’s stead, though it did little for the worry in his eyes. It did little to ward off the worry in her heart, either. “He’s weathered hell before. He’ll return to us.”

“And hopefully seize that Ignis while he’s at it,” Genome added, though it only sent a wave of unease through the four of them. Vyra’s gaze met Faust’s across their makeshift circle. Of the three planes, they’d both broken through to the heavens, but hell was a different matter entirely. Nothing in the heavens or on the earth posed them threat, but hell was the unknown. She saw in Faust’s human eye a certain type of resolve- _He’s prepared for this. We need to trust he knows how to handle himself._

Vyra closed her eyes a moment, though she saw not dark but burning orange dancing across the back of her eyelids. They could only hope. God may have died on the hopes of a foolish ambition, but whatever the depths of hell were hiding besides the Ignises, Vyra had no doubt it was soon to awake. “Then what do we do now?”

“We do what we’ve been doing a millennia,” replied Faust, red eye flickering like a candle burning too-hot, “We bide our time, search for the stray, and ready ourselves for war.”

Vyra nodded, as did Genome- then finally Spectre, clearly trying his best to hold back his concern. They’d do what they must. For however long it took Revolver to return to them, Ignis in hand.

Together the four stood, sharing a moment of solidarity before the storm that was surely to follow- then one by one did the light of them disappear, until only red was left looking over the ghost town that dawn had made of Den City.


	12. XI [Three Days Gone]

The streets had turned to night. People moved with hoods drawn tight around their heads and scarves pulled up against their mouths, eyes darting fast to the gutters and the alleys beside their feet as they passed, looking for signs of rats.

The market street was still busy as Go wove his way up it, perhaps the only one with eyes cast around instead of downwards. Down the street someone coughed- just a quiet, stifled thing. Immediately did the crowd around them part, leaving them an island to dash down a nearby alleyway. Go wished them luck.

The shops that dealt in foodstuffs were down at the bottom of the street, near the docks, so the sailors could bring in their catches to trade for provisions without hiring a wagon to pull their hauls up the road. The shops were thin and the crowds clustered, no one willing to move from too far from the sides of their companions. There was one free table near the middle of the road, an island amongst the empty stalls beside it, and Go made for it, pulling a pouch from his belt.

Go dropped the bag of coin onto the merchant’s table. It hit with a dull clang and a thud- heads turned, but Go hardly cared. “Whatever you can get me,” he said, “and that’s all yours.”

The vendor looked at the coin pouch with a hard eye. He took it in hand, loosening the drawstring and poking through with disinterested fingers. “For this? A fourth of the table.”

Go looked it over- the table was already sparse, littered with a few carrots and potatoes, a few radishes dappled about them. No sight of greenery, and not a mention of the rice bags stacked behind him. In his head Go ran the numbers. He was well-versed in the bare minimum a child could survive on; he wanted to provide at least double that. “What about the rice? And I’ll need half the table.”

“Double for half the table-”

“Then I’ll pay you double,” said Go without hesitation.

The man only glared at him from over the table, doubtless at his interruption. “And a scoop of rice for two coin. New gold, not the old half mint.”

Go scowled. He knew a cheat when he saw one, and knew an opportunist for what one was. But near all the other tables down the market street were abandoned. The rot had come without warning and without way to stop it, curling unnatural through the stockhouses and the cupboards. Go pulled another pouch of coin from his belt- he could spare it. “Give me a bag.”

The merchant grinned. “It’s all yours.”

He stacked half the table of vegetables into Go’s basket, then handed him the bag of rice to throw over his shoulder. Go turned away as he pocketed his coin and made back towards the streets, wondering how many more times he’d be able to do this, if worst came to worst. The orphanage storehouses had so far escaped unscathed, but they’d need to be replenished weekly, even if portion sizes were cut down… Those thoughts rattled though Go’s head, as if taunting him for his powerlessness against plague. Well. He wasn’t entirely powerless. Just lacking in leads.

The caretaker was there to meet him at the orphanage doors- she still looked tired, and the traces of her smile still looked strained, but there was honesty in them when he handed over the basket of produce, set the bag of rice by the door.

He greeted her warmly, then said, “This should last at least the rest of the week. I’ll bring by whatever else I can.”

“Thank you,” she replied, and looked to say something else, but Go cut her off with a small shake of his head.

He dropped his voice and continued, “Close the door, and don’t let the children come out front until I tell you it’s clear.”

Her eyes went wide, but she nodded in understanding, tapping his arm in affectionate goodbye before taking the rice bag and basket inside, closing the door firmly behind her. Go waited a few moments, counting them out careful, _one, two, three_.

Go turned. The orphanage street was empty, though faintly he could hear the children playing in the backyard, more subdued than usual but not taken up fully in the gloomy weight that had consumed the rest of the city. “Why have you been following me?”

The person that stepped from the shadows of an abandoned storefront across the street hadn’t been the kind of person he was expecting. He thought perhaps that he’d see the Sentinel, perhaps an angel, or the presence he’d been stalking through the streets what seemed like a lifetime ago- but it was a woman, slight of frame and soft of composure. There wasn’t a trace of magic about her, but she held herself with an air of importance- a noble then, perhaps, though none Go recognized.

“You’re a better man than I thought you were,” she said, and Go immediately struck down that possibility. An outsider, perhaps. Foreign, though she spoke with no accent.

“Sorry?” he asked, startled by her frankness, though he wasn’t unappreciative. Frankness was always a virtue over the niceties of the court.

The woman waved a hand around as she approached. Go understood her to mean the orphanage. “You bought out that store for the children here. I’d thought you might have done it for yourself. But it seems like the thought never crossed your mind. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“You followed me because you thought I was some selfish rich guy?”

The woman laughed, and though she shook her head it was almost in embarrassment rather than denial. “I’m sorry. I suppose I just… can’t sit by and hold my tongue when I see people acting entitled while others are suffering.”

“So you followed me all the way down here.” Go crossed his arms. She seemed honest enough, and was slight enough of frame that Go was fairly confident he could handle her whatever sort of magic or martial art she might try to throw at him- but he wasn’t the type to underestimate an opponent if he could help it. To properly take a hit or two before the reversal meant he’d have to judge them accurately, on the spot.

“I am sorry,” said the woman, though her eyes held a sparkle to them, now. A certain kind of softness- motherly, perhaps, not that Go had any experience with that.

“Who exactly are you?”

The woman stepped forwards to close the last of the distance between them, pulling a small printed tag from her satchel. Go narrowed his eyes at it- she’d spoken of not wanting to sit by and watch suffering, but she seemed quite well-off herself. She presented the card to him with both hands and a small bow; Go accepted in kind. She said, “My name is Taki Kyoko. I’m a doctor. Though I’m a bit stretched thin right now… If anything happens to you or one of the children, please call me over.”

Go glanced down at the card, but there was no address written on it. He glanced back up at Kyoko, who seemed to realize his question before he spoke it. “The paper was enchanted by one of my colleagues from Vrains. If you need to call me, burn the paper above a candle and I’ll come running. I don’t have a permanent address here yet, so I’ve been making do with these.”

She smiled, and Go returned it. It wasn’t as if the world had turned to chaos- _not yet, anyway_ , said the part of him that feared what might happen if he couldn’t find an angel sooner rather than later- but to find a good person was beginning to feel rarer than it had before the angels’ arrival.

He let out a long breath and said, “There is. Someone. His name is Makoto. Works as an apprentice to one of the delivery companies in Den City, but two days ago he…”

Kyoko’s face went slack with concern; immediately she began to dig around in her satchel. For what, Go couldn’t see, but he heard clear as day the sound of glass vials clinking together and the quiet slosh of liquid- witch’s potions, already prepared. “Is he here?”

Go nodded, and ushered her up the steps to the orphanage door. Her manner was different than it had been before. Where at first he’d thought it assessing, and then found it almost bashful, now it was sharp and concentrated.

He led her down the hall, towards the far room where Makoto was. Go would have taken him to his small apartment down by the docks, but he’d collapsed on the steps of the orphanage and his condition had seemed bad- they’d been too worried to move him any more than they already had. Go explained all of that to Kyoko as she pushed open the door of the room, motioning for Go to stay outside as the hinges creaked.

But Go wouldn’t leave her alone with him. If he was sick there was a chance he could be healed- if a witch doctor poisoned him, then there was no recovery. “It’s fine,” he said, “I’m not the type to get sick.”

Kyoko frowned, trying to discourage him with a stern look, like a mother scolding a child- like the well-intentioned glares he’d oft been given as a child. But Go could no longer be deterred by such things- if he ever had been, really- and Kyoko gave in with a sigh. “Alright. But make sure to keep a distance. And try not to inhale any smoke, please. Everything I use in my medicine is natural, but the smoke could be bad for your lungs.”

“Understood,” said Go, and stood waiting at the door while Kyoko went to Makoto’s bedside. He still looked weak- obviously feverish, the red of his cheeks standing out almost painfully against the paleness of him, of the hollow wheeze of his breath. Kyoko set down her bag on the tile beside the bed and pressed a hand to his forehead, mouth pressed into a tight frown. She closed her eyes a moment, and only then did Go first feel the flicker of magic about her- a low thing that clustered around her head and her hands.

Makoto shuddered out a breath, but already did it seem fuller. Kyoko removed her hand from his head, then pulled out a cloth from her bag, setting it on the ground and smoothing it out carefully. It was a dark navy, with silver embroidery drawing out a complicated, eight-pointed circuit. Carefully she placed a vial in the center of the circuit, then withdrew two sets of liquid that nearly glowed when the sun from the windows poured through over them, matching orange and yellow and white. Next came a small dropper, and Kyoko didn’t so much as hesitate before mixing them in fast proportions Go couldn’t count in the vial. It puffed, but didn’t smoke.

Kyoko took a final breath, and magic flared about her hands again as she pricked her finger with a needle, a drop of blood pulling away neatly to land on the rim of the vial when she squeezed the pad of her finger.

The embroidered circuit flared to sudden life, a flash of orange light that Go narrowed his eyes against, though he refused to close them entirely. Kyoko moved quickly, cutting the smoking vial with water poured directly into the neck of the it. It only took a second- and then the light receded, the puff of smoke dispersed into the air with the faint smell of sugar. Kyoko let out her breath, then delicately picked up the vial and swirled its contents. It glowed with no light in the sun, though a faint magic remained about the brownish liquid. Slowly did Kyoko coax Makoto into swallowing it in his sleep as Go looked on, ready to move if Makoto began to choke- but it went smoothly, and Kyoko set the remaining medicine carefully on the bedside table, stopping it with a cork pulled from the side pocket of her satchel.

It had seemed more science than magic. But alchemy was a rare science, and Go supposed that he’d stumbled upon a rare doctor. She packed up her things carefully and quietly, throwing the strap of the satchel over her shoulder and stopping to check Makoto’s temperature and breathing one more time before she returned to Go in the doorway.

They stepped together into the hall, the door shutting soft behind them. Kyoko said, voice scarcely above a whisper, “That should abate the illness for now. I imagine he’ll wake up later this afternoon. Have him drink the rest of the medicine when he does, or if that seems to overwhelm him, stagger it out over the next two days. Keep him from work if you can. I can’t cure the plague completely, but I can keep any of its effects from manifesting with that medicine. And if it seems like he’s relapsing, remember to burn that card and I’ll bring more over as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Go said. He’d already made the decision to trust her- he’d simply have to stand by it and wait, hoping that her words were true.

Kyoko shook her head, and together they started back towards the entrance hall. “It’s the very least I can do for a good man and an innocent child. The very least.”

* * *

 _“I want to know how a Sentinel is created_ ,” Aoi had asked, and, as expected, Spectre had only scoffed- _Why would we entrust you with such knowledge? No human can create one. It would all be useless to you regardless._

He had vanished shortly after that, ignoring her protests and stepping strange into warped reality before vanishing entirely, though Aoi didn’t so much as blink. There was no denying the possibility she’d seen that Sentinel before in her dreams- she’d certainly seen _someone._ It wouldn’t have been so impossible for it to be the Sentinel, but she knew that they took time to make, that they did not bleed, that there was no way to destroy one save casting it down to hell.

Aoi paced circles around her room. She wasn’t one for meaningless activity, but for three days she’d been trapped in her room without sight of the angels or even news from outside. She’d long since run through her last set of books, and sneaking out to the library was out of the question- not that it would have anything of interest she hadn’t already read.

Instead she’d read old picture books, retracing the stories of her youth over and over- _Once upon a time, there lived a young boy. He was the son of a witch, a great and powerful woman whose name was spoken reverent in the great cities of Vrains from which she’d fled...The witch settled in a small cabin, tucked away in the ruins of a castle in the dark woods. But the villagers at the base of the mountain grew scared of the witch and her strange experiments. Something about her was strange. She just wasn’t right- and neither was her son..._

Aoi snapped the book shut and resumed her pacing. She could stand the insult of confinement, but to be damned to ignorance by both sides of the conflict was something that grated at her more than she could stand. How dare the angels, how dare _His Majesty the King_. Aoi turned a final circle and collapsed into her bed, the sheets mussed from how many times she’d done the very same thing over the course of the past few days.

Three days, without any knowledge of the outside world. Three days without so much as a sign of Spectre- not so unusual, she supposed, given that tonight was to be their meeting- and without jewels.

Aoi sighed, and something fluttered in the light above her closed eyelids- the flutter of wings, the soft flap of air moving around her. She opened her eyes, caught sight of a small frame flickering in and out of focus. It was old but familiar, a silhouette amongst the fabric draped atop her bedposts slipping in and out of focus. _Impossible_. She had no more bones from which to summon forth the heavens, and yet-

Aoi froze, holding out a tentative hand. “Del?”

This guardian was different from the rest- six white wings emerged from her back like long, thin petals, and her clothes were striking in tailcoat and tophat. Aoi hadn’t seen Del since the days of her childhood, since she’d first tried to summon a guardian with the aid of those red diamond earrings and found Del waiting for her when the light had faded.

Del whirled on the spot, landing soft in the palm of Aoi’s hand- but her expression was pinched with worry, her lyrical chirp melancholy- and, if Aoi thought hard enough about it, rather afraid. Aoi sat up on her bed, pulling Del down gently to eye level. “Why are you here? I didn’t summon you, so why..?”

 _No_ , said Del, and Aoi almost recoiled at the sound of the voice. It was clear and beautiful, low without holding harshness or trying to be imposing. It was gentle, but never before had one of her guardians spoken. _The question is, my Princess, why are_ you _here?_

“What do you…” began Aoi, but she was cut off as Del waved a small hand and the world- no, not the world, but the scales before her eyes- began to fall away in bits and pieces. Tiles dropped out of the floor to reveal eyes staring up at her, red and burning; the window fell from its frame and tore away the walls with it, brick by brick into the void, vanishing into the dark without end. A red pulse beat through the air, searing something acidic into Aoi’s lungs when she tried to take a breath. Coughing, Aoi scrambled up atop her bed, the last vestige of reality in the floating world.

 _Please tell me,_ said Del, clutching tight to Aoi’s thumb, _why are you here? This is no place for Zaizen Aoi._

Aoi shook her head as the last of her room fell into the crawling darkness. It clawed at the edges of her bed, scraping at the wooden posts and ripping at the sheets spilling over the sides, the fabric half-draping over the frame. “Why _am_ I here?”

_I would think it a coincidence, but… Perhaps it is our fault._

Aoi blinked, glancing from the encroaching darkness down to Del. “What do you mean?”

She couldn’t think of any fault her guardians would have in what was happening to her now- whatever was happening to her. If there was some failure, then surely it reflected on her as a summoner witch rather than on her guardians themselves.

 _You’re half of a twin star, my Princess. It wasn’t meant to be that way, but a demon more powerful than us played with the cycle of your life. We failed you. And we will never forget the shame of that._ Del bowed her head. Her small shoulders trembled with what Aoi feared might be the start of tears. Her guardians had always been there to wipe away her tears, the least Aoi could do was try and offer comfort in return.

“You’ve never failed me,” Aoi said, “not once. Not you, nor anyone else. If anything else, I should be stronger. I should be.”

 _Thank you,_ said Del, though her voice still wavered, _but that simply isn’t true. You’ve had something very important stolen from you. I… Sweet and I, we saw it. And we were powerless to stop it. You need to regain it quickly, or it will burn away forever._

“You mean my jewelry?” asked Aoi, feeling distinct the lack of weight around her wrists, the absence of ring to fiddle with around her finger. But Del shook her head. She looked up to meet Aoi’s gaze properly. There were no longer any sign of tears.

_No. I wish I could tell you, my Princess. I wish I could tell you now, but if I do, he’ll know. He will know, and he will come to kill you, because he is more powerful than any of us, right now. Summon me in your world, and I’ll tell you the truth of what happened in that graveyard so many years ago._

Del pushed up off her hand, fluttering in the air before her as the world began to shake, distorting with traces of familiarity rather than foreignness, this time. It was as if a curtain was blowing in the wind, waiting for the moment to part for the morning sun. _Be safe, my Princess._

“Be safe, Del,” she called as her guardian flit away, vanishing into the darkness as the world pulled itself back together piece by piece, swimming out from the void until the voit itself was no more-

Or at least until Aoi could not see it any longer. She stood atop her bed, sheets mussed and the noontime sun streaming through her open windows, birdsong wafting in from outside. Aoi turned a slow circle, trying to sense the void, but found nothing responding to her save the very distant sense of the angels, indistinct and unable to be traced.

Aoi let out a long breath, steadying herself again in reality. Her guardians could speak. Her guardians could _speak_ , and that revelation was enough to burn all the weariness from Aoi’s veins in one strike. She had a plan, just flickers of impulse and things that could happen if she struck them into motion now- and she knew exactly what to start with. Aoi leapt off her bed, scrambling for her bedroom door. She half expected to find guards stationed directly outside, but for once that wasn’t the case- she must have caught them on change of shift. It was a quick trip through her reception chambers and personal library that found her at the main doors- not grand as the King’s chambers upstairs, but certainly some of the more beautifully carved in the wing, dappled with scenes of the Blue Angel.

Aoi knocked on her door, then shoved it open. It couldn’t be locked from the outside, but the door almost smacked into the helmet of one of the guards stationed outside as Aoi threw it open. “I want to speak to Hayami,” she ordered, and stood in silence a moment, compelling the guard to comply.

“I will inform her,” said the guard, “but for now, please return to your chambers, Your Highness. His Majesty still has not granted permission for you to leave them. If you have any other request, please alert one of us.”

Aoi frowned. “I’ve just told you, haven’t I? Go fetch me Hayami. If she’s in a meeting, then bring her here afterwards. Tell her I want to speak about something from my childhood. She’ll understand.

“Understood,” said the guard, bowing to her deeply as she turned her back, shutting the door firmly behind her. Aoi let out a long breath and surveyed her empty chambers, thinking of the faerie dust kept in a vial beneath her jewelry box and the circuit still written on the boards stashed behind her dresser. She’d need bones, and she’d need those earrings, and the rest… _Soon, Del_ , thought Aoi. _Soon_.

* * *

Go went out, that night, for even with the rats and the plague he had a duty- and it wasn’t as if he’d have to wake early to prepare for the matches of the evening, anyway. Go supposed his duties had doubled, really- keep kids who’d hit hard times out and off the streets, and to find the angels that had made Den City, _his_ city, into a hollow shell of itself in less than three full days. The latter shouldn’t have been hard- the angels were glowing beacons of inhumanity, even at their most subtle, but it was as if they had vanished entirely since the morning of the deadline, put down their plagues of pestilence and rot and vanished without a trace back to their heavens.

But Go sensed that they must still have been close- not because of any magic, but because that was what his instinct told him.

Go, contrary to what one might think upon first meeting him, read every book that he passed on to the Princess. She had asked many a time for books on summonings, on shattering pieces of the heavens to tear them down to earth. Go had never understood why- if anyone should have that knowledge, it was the Zaizens. But it wasn’t his place to question her, and so books did he provide.

There had been a small section on angels in the back of one of them- not written properly into the book, but rather scribbled down in the margins by a scholar with shaky hand, either from old age or panic. Go hoped the former, though knew full well it must have been the latter. It hadn’t said much concretely- just baseless speculation on heaven and hell and demons, for the most part- but it had declared one thing with complete and utter certainty. Only there had the wavering hand stopped to write in small, precise letters- _Angels cannot move far from the source of their plagues._

It could have been baseless, for all Go knew. He was a fighter rather than a scholar, and the simple witch’s magic in his pendant and earrings could attest to that. But he read, and that one sentence in the midst of nonsense he was inclined to believe. The angels of myth were cruel, callous- incapable of feeling. They’d created the Sentinels in their own image, in that sense. But-

A hunter’s dogs barked, shattering the silence of the night. Go almost jumped. He wasn’t one to let the atmosphere get to him, but the unease weighing over Den City was palpable. Three days had gone without so much as a riot- minor discontent, a few neighbors getting into scuffles- but it seemed that Den City was skating by on just enough. Just enough food, just enough isolation, just enough of a taste of the plagues to have people frightened but not rioting- yet.

It was almost too good to be true. Go’s lingering thought only solidified into reality when, from the shadows of the cross street, stepped the Sentinel.

The movement was slow, deliberate- Go knew not if the Sentinel had been stalking him or of their paths truly had just crossed and the Sentinel had decided to make the most of it. Regardless, the Sentinel stood there. Go rallied his magic- a more than familiar sense over the past few days. He played it in the ring sometimes, demonstrated bits of it to break up back-alley scuffles, but the full roar of it was rarely allowed to blaze free. Go needn't glance behind him to know that the street was empty. If they were to fight here, Go was confident no one would end a sacrifice or a casualty- unlike the panic of the arena.

“This is the third time,” Go said, “and you’re not getting a fourth chance.”

“Wait,” said the Sentinel, and Go cracked his knuckles, but held his position. He understood how that Sentinel fought, now, with his grasp of the winds and tendency towards swift evasion to turn the momentum in his favor. If he tried to turn a moment’s delay into his advantage, Go would be prepared. The Sentinel continued- “My name is Fujiki Yusaku. And I’m going to destroy Hanoi. Outsiders like you don’t need to bother fighting.”

“I’m going to fight no matter what,” replied Go, “and I wouldn’t trust a Sentinel to fight their masters like a dog biting their owner’s hand.”

“They’re not my masters,” snarled the Sentinel, in a tone that dared Go to provoke him again. Go was still skeptical of that, himself- never had a Sentinel appeared that wasn’t loyal to Hanoi in some manner or another- but he let the issue rest. He’d push it from another angle before they ended up at each other’s throats. In ihs pause, the Sentinel said- “Fight if you want. But leave the one named Taki Kyoko to me.”

Go froze at the familiar name. “What do you know about Taki Kyoko?”

The Sentinel’s posture went sharp, watching Go for the slightest tell. “What do _you_ know about her? I know that she’s an angel. And I know that she’s to blame for the plague. The illness.”

And how, thought Go, would anyone know that unless they were with Hanoi themselves? The angels had never been named, not even by the accounts of those that had been left by Hanoi as warnings to those who would stand against them with the Zaizens. “I don’t believe you. Prove you have a reason to fight them.”

The Sentinel shifted on his feet- not enough to cause Go alarm, but enough to get his magic leaping at the sight. The Sentinel said, baring the gauntlet on his wrist, “Bringing the Ignis to meet the deadline wasn’t enough proof for you?”

“You brought a fake. Anyone could have staged that with enough time. Give me a real reason, or you’re going down here and now,” said Go. He’d never have the power to cast a Sentinel down to the depths, but he sure as hell could break one into enough pieces that it wouldn’t move again for an eternity.

The Sentinel let out a long breath, seemingly gathering his words. Go waited- in truth, he hadn’t expected their conversation to get this far. The Sentinel said, every word a weight- “Because it’s my responsibility. And I’ll tell you why.”


	13. XII [Preparations]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [astrobreaks](https://twitter.com/astrobreaks)!! Who also has a [ygo artblog here](url)!!

The grave belonging to the woman named Taki Kyoko was empty. There was the skeleton frame of a coffin, the wood eaten up through the years until nothing remained of it but the iron boltings of it. But there were no bones. There were no signs that anything had been buried in the coffin at all, in fact- save a small metal box, placed right where a skull would have been in any of the other graves. Yusaku rolled it in his hands, trying to sense what, if anything, was inside. There was no lock, nor any visible seam; yet something rolled clearly around inside, rattling soft and small against the exterior of the metal cube. Briefly he’d tried to pry it open, but even his strength had faltered against whatever alchemy had been used to create it.

Kusanagi stood inside the hollowed-out grave, leaning on his shovel and looking as if he’d just come to a decision. _No_ , thought Yusaku, _like he just found proof of something_.

“My brother,” said Kusanagi, “Jin. He must have been taken by the angels. If he doesn’t exist in the world after death, and if I can’t find him in the real world, then that’s the only explanation left.”

Went missing from their home in Vrains without so much as a trace. No one had seen him, and though he’d scoured the country, not a witch had seen him alive. No soul lingered where the work of a gravekeeper could reach, and to destroy a soul went against the laws of nature- the body might decay and the mind might forget, but a soul would always find its way back to its owner in the next life.

(Unless it had been stolen away, thought Yusaku, Kusanagi’s stories about Hanoi flashing through his mind- of souls burning themselves up and away, out like a candle’s flame. But that hadn’t happened with Jin, so it had to be _somewhere_ in the cycle. Unless an angel was holding on to it for some reason no one in this plane could understand.)

“What are we going to do?” Yusaku asked, “Cut a vector to the heavens?”

If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have asked- would have struck it down an immediate impossibility. But this man had an understanding of death that the ordinary witch could only dream of. Whether they were going to pull the existence known as ‘Jin’ back down to earth, or cross the planes themselves- Yusaku got the sense that they could do it.  

“If that’s what we have to do,” replied Kusanagi, and reached a hand up out of the grave, propping his other elbow on the ground. Yusaku reached out and took his hand, pulling him up from the empty grave. Once he was up and had scraped the dirt from his shirt, he leaned back down into the grave to pull up the shovel. Yusaku refrained from mentioning that it would have been easier to do it the other way around as Kusanagi continued, “But there’s a lot of things we have to gather if we want to do that, and a lot of theories I’d have to test first.”

“I have the time,” said Yusaku. Kusanagi glanced up at him, not quite surprised- but cautious, perhaps.

“You…”

Yusaku didn’t let him finish his sentence. “I want Hanoi to answer for what they did to me. And to your brother. I never knew. But now that I do… I can’t let this rest, Kusanagi. I have to make things right.”

“Yusaku… Thank you.” The caution in Kusanagi’s tensed shoulders gave way to the quiet slope of gratitude.

“It’s as much for me as it is for you. I want...” Yusaku muttered, then stood to grab the shovel and start replacing the disturbed earth of the grave. He tossed the metal box to Kusanagi, who caught it easily and began turning it over, examining it for something Yusaku might have missed.

“I’m no alchemist,” he said, “but I’ll start with trying to get this open.”

“You think there’s a clue inside?”

Kusanagi pushed himself to his feet, tapping the side of the box as he did. “Even if there’s not, it’s more than I’ve had to go on for years. I’m not giving that up.”

 

It took two years- two years of travelling, of weak and intermittent charms that had the two of them thrown out of more places than they were allowed to enter. A gravekeeper and his kept, most assumed- better than the truth, but still enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who lived without magic. (And even into the hearts of some who did.)

The journey was long, and often unpleasant, moreso for Kusanagi than for Yusaku, he imagined- But finally did the day come.

The Royal Cemetery was not a terribly well-guarded thing; the Kings and Queens of Sol had long since stopped having elaborate tombs constructed once their strong connections of the traditions of Vrains and the noble witches there had ceased. Traditions were still upheld, Kusanagi explained, but as of late it lacked meaning. They snuck in fast during the night, drawing up their summons with chalk lines in careful hand and blood spilled carefully across the circuit markers.

They’d smuggled in a deer skeleton, a vat of ground-up flowers and blessed water from a spring in the mountains. Traces of gold, silver, iron slipped inside the skull, gold gleaming through its empty eyes. Various charms and potions picked up from witches across the country, supplemented by the directions they’d cobbled together from fragments of old scrolls salvaged from the wrath of the angels.

Kusanagi poured the water over the skeleton’s ribs, soaking the boards below and turning them dark like billowing lungs. Yusaku topped it off with flowers tucked in the hollows of the bones- primrose and poppy, bursts of yellow in the darkness. Red camellia petals, Yusaku’s own final touch scattered about like drops of blood, redder than the circuits.

The two of them stepped back and exchanged a glance.

Their magic would not fail. They’d practiced this once before, on a much smaller scale- rabbit’s blood, the skeleton of a small falcon- and managed to pull a small creature from the other world, a small, round thing that floated in the air without wings. The small white creature had followed them around for a few weeks until the magic had eventually faded, chattering in strange, hollow sounds neither could understand but pleasant enough to listen to as they’d trekked through the bamboo forest.

They exchanged a nod, and began the ritual. The words Kusanagi spoke were ancient, the original language of Vrains whose every word sparked tight with the old power of the natural world. The words of the nature spirits, sworn to guide the world over the millennia from antiquity to eternity. Though he knew not the words, he understood their meaning instinctive. _Summoning conditions. Materials as tribute._ And this time, different from the first attempt- _Kusanagi Jin._

Magic flared wild around them as they concentrated on the circuit, on the disparity opening itself between this world and the next. It was a different soft, one of grasping hands rather than lashing winds. Yusaku poured all the raw power he could muster into it and let Kusanagi do with it as he pleased.

The summoning was not the same. When the small creature had come it had appeared easily, brought down to earth by some sort of gravitation that defied even Yusaku’s understanding of the theory. This time there was a resistance- a seal of some sort that they couldn’t seem to break. It was taking too long- Yusaku was starting to feel a strain, a slight pounding in his head that left something in his ears ringing with resonance.

A mental block. The distortion of the world began to shrink. Kusanagi clicked his tongue and surged his magic forth, weaving it intricate and complex through the threads of reality trying to stitch themselves back together. Yusaku followed, trying to copy those precise folds of magic- to coax his winds into something that could entice, rather than attack-

And just as abruptly did he feel something grab hold. It was a brush against his mind like a thought that wasn’t his- at his side Kusanagi steadied himself.

“ _Pull_ ,” Kusanagi hissed, though his command was in a language Yusaku didn’t remember why he understood. Still he compiled, because they had no choice but to succeed here. He pulled with all the strength he could muster.

And then did everything fall away- the obstruction, the tension, even Yusaku’s magic itself. He stumbled, slightly, catching himself after the sudden release of his magic. Misaki began to growl low at their feet, and Kusanagi all but shoved Yusaku back as he stepped in front of him, pushing Yusaku back behind the shelter of a tree as something began to materialize in the center of the smoking boards.

Red, white, then red again. The low glint of metal pushed out from the fog, held out in a white-gloved hand. The blood all seeped out from the circuit- more than they had even brought, it seemed, flowing out like a bursted dam into the dirt around the boards. A shadow creeped around the creature’s back, but vanished as the creature took a single step forwards.

“Choose,” said the creature, a strange, wavering existence that couldn’t seem to decide on its form. It blinked- golden eyes, glowing bright behind a strange mask- and decided abruptly on _human_. “Your life, or Jin’s?”

Before Kusanagi could do so much as open his mouth to answer, the bullet flashed. Yusaku’s magic lashed out to try and stop it, but the bullet cut straight through his wind. Kusanagi collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Yusaku flew out of hiding before he so much as registered the call of his name. Yusaku had burned with rage- that the angels had Jin, that his magic had been able to do nothing against the bullet the creature had fired. That this creature had done this to him in the first place- Yusaku threw every bit of negative emotion into the whipping winds of his magic, launching himself between them.

“You-” said the creature, only for Yusaku’s winds to knock him back a step, ripping at his cloak and all but tearing the revolver out of his hand. The creature snarled at him but fixed his grip on his weapon, levelling it at Yusaku.

“Who are you?” Yusaku snarled as the creature’s eyes flashed gold again and Yusaku’s winds parted around him, not so much as ruffling his hair, the earrings dangling long on either side of his head.

“Revolver. I’m sure you know that name.”

And then he was gone, vanished with the scent of cherry blossoms and a single declaration- “I’ll be seeing you again.”

Yusaku glared, fuming at the spot where Revolver had just stood no more than a moment before turning back to Kusanagi, who’d fallen flat on the ground, blood staining the front of his shirt. Misaki, unable to decide if she was wolfhound or dog, yapped and growled, bounding a path out of the cemetery and leaving Yusaku no choice but to follow and hope they were fast enough.

* * *

The Sentinel’s story was brief, but it was enough for Go to get a handle on just what had led to this situation. To Hanoi and the angels crashing his match and every bit of unease that had followed afterwards.

“You caused all of this,” Go accused. Yusaku didn’t back down.

“And I’m trying to end it. I’ll fight against the angels. They need to answer for what they did to me and Jin.”

Go’s respect grew for the Sentinel then, just a bit- any lesser man would have shirked responsibility. He couldn’t say a greater man would have chosen forgiveness over revenge, either. But he’d seen how single-minded goals like that could make someone. He was stubborn himself and he knew it, but not when he had evidence directly to the contrary. “What if you’re wrong about Taki? What if she’s like you? Someone who was supposed to be on their side but is fighting against them?”

Yusaku narrowed his eyes. “What favor did she do for you?”

Go thought about the card, weighing heavy in his pocket. Even if she was an angel, she’d saved Makoto. Even just by sunset he’d regained color to his complexion- even woken for a brief moment to drink some water and medicine before falling into a sleep less fevered.

As if sensing his thoughts, Yusaku continued, “She could only save someone because she’s caused the plague in the first place. Think about it, Onizuka. What human could heal a heavenly plague like a common cold? She’s not on your side. It’s just leverage for the future.”

But for everything to have been a ploy would have been senseless. If the angels had wanted to take the children hostage, then they would have done it from the start. He gripped the card tight in the pocket of his cloak, bending it without crumpling it. “I won’t give it to you. But I’ll help you.”

“You wouldn’t be helpful,” said Yusaku, blunt. Go bristled, but he continued on- “She’s the angel of pestilence. You’ve seen what she can do. She’d kill you in a second.”

“She wouldn’t. She didn’t.”

“You weren’t after her life, then.” The Sentinel was blunt, and what he said was true, but Go wouldn’t stand for it. He lifted a clenched fist- not in aggression, but with determination, solid as his stature.

“I said that I would protect Sol as a hero. So I’m going to protect it. I’m not scared of fighting you. What makes you think I’ll be scared of fighting an angel?”

That answer seemed to be to Yusaku’s liking- it was miniscule, but something in his attitude changed. “You’re suggesting we trap her together?”

“What else would I be? But I’m calling the shots. I’m not killing her if I think she’s trying to help humans instead of Hanoi.” Go held out a hand. If the Sentinel was to be flighty, then Go would have to be the one to bridge the gap. Yusaku regarded his outstretched hand warily, but stepped forwards to take it.

“Do what you want. But if you try and stop me, I have no problem with fighting you again, too.” The threat was true, and it still held an undeniable weight with the memory of cargo boxes hurtling down towards him- but it was less intimidating than it would have been four days ago.

Go shook his hand strongly. Yusaku’s grip was nothing to scoff at either.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, or at least he thought he said- because as the words left his mouth the world in his vision started to sway. He thought it might have been one of the Sentinel’s tricks- but Yusaku too swayed on his feet in the crumbling world, fighting briefly against the darkness before it rose up and swallowed them whole. In the last moment before black surged up in grasping hands to cover his open eyes, he thought he heard a voice- but that too was a thing distorted and gone, lost to the drag of the dark.

* * *

“Are you taking the Princess with you tonight?”

The abandoned home by the sea that the angels had claimed as their temporary residence was never empty. To maintain their control over the city and to regulate the strength of their plagues at least one of them needed to be out, hovering over the skyline a dangerous reminder of what had come to pass- but someone was always in the old noble home whose finery had given way to exposed drywall and the movements of mice in the basement.

Spectre pushed out of the corner room he’d claimed as his own- what had once been a well-windowed library of sorts, shelves still with the scattered book atop them and cushioned seats built into the wall before the windows- to Genome’s question.

“Yes,” he said, and shut the door quietly behind him. The house itself was small and openly designed, with couches in one corner of the room that opened up cleanly to a wide kitchen space, and from there held the foyer- not that any of them used the door.

From one of the couches, Genome made a noise that he would deny being a snort. “Be careful around that girl. She might know more than she’s letting on.”

“I’m aware,” Spectre replied, and started towards the table in the kitchen area. There was something steaming on the table- a closer look revealed it to be some sort of apple and squash curry that smelled savory rather than sweet. It had been scooped atop white rice, fluffy and untouched by the rot creeping in on Den City.

“Eat it,” Genome said, “Faust picked ingredients up outside the city while getting you that deer’s blood.”

From anyone else, Spectre imagined that the statement would have sounded suspect at best. Even knowing exactly why Faust had been out, it still sounded rather suspect to Spectre.

“Vyra made it,” Genome continued, apparently taking Spectre’s contemplation as hesitation, “besides. We couldn’t poison you anyway.”

“I’ve never thought you would?” Spectre replied. Genome stared at him from the couch a moment, and then he realized, searching through his memories- _Ah. That incident_. It was strange to recall, after so long and after so much had changed. All those early memories were, really. Though he could relive them in perfect clarity, it was often easier to let them fade to the background, soft memories of a life that could have belonged to someone else.  

“I wasn’t the same person, back then.”

Genome eyed him with outright skepticism, and started counting off the centuries with his fingers before giving up after the first five. “You were. Just younger. A lot younger.”

Spectre sighed, but couldn’t protest. Genome continued- “You might not need it, but it’s still good for you, the stage you’re at. Don’t want those wings of yours wilting.”

“That’s not how they work,” Spectre replied to the joke, but supposed that Genome would know about everything else. Spectre sat down at the table and picked up the spoon set out for him. Vyra must have made the curry while he was finishing his preparations and then immediately headed out; he either hadn’t heard her call for him or the agitated state of his magic had deafened him to it.

He hadn’t taken so much as a bite when his attention was pulled away by a weakly chastising remark.

“Stop burning off energy without a reason,” said Faust, collapsing into the chair across from Spectre. He didn’t startle at the angel’s appearance- when they could come and go freely as they pleased, one tended to get used to others appearing in the common areas without warning.

Spectre frowned at Faust as he sprawled out over the small wooden chair. “Please worry less about me and more about Revolver.”

“We worry about you both,” Faust replied, glancing at Spectre with a tired look. For that, Spectre had no retort.

He finally started to eat the curry. The taste of it was immediately nostalgic- sweeter than the aroma but not distractingly so. The sweetness of the apple balanced well with the savoriness of the curry and the mellow flavor the squash. Spectre thought immediately of autumn, of a world burning, of-

Of a life of someone who could well have been a different person. _Frustrating_ , thought Spectre, and set the spoon down on the table with a small clink. He’d never needed to spend so much time reminiscing; it had to be an effect of meeting both Playmaker and the Princess.

Across the table, the magic around Faust leaped and strained, turning everyone’s head in the room. Faust pinched his left eye closed, though Spectre saw his iris glowing red through it. After a moment it settled, and the atmosphere sparking about the room disappeared, but a weariness took its place.

“Not going to start having problems, are we?” asked Genome. Faust shook his head and leaned forwards to rest his elbows on the table, rubbing at his temples.

“The flashbacks are already unprecedentedly strong. I’m sure Ryoken has a handle on things where he is, too. I’ll trust he can mitigate it better than I can.”

“Come on,” Genome replied, craning his head back, half-leaning over the back of the sofa, “We can’t go leaving everything to the kids. No offense, Spectre.”

He didn’t reply, and doubted that Genome was expecting him to in the first place. Spectre pushed the rest of the bowl over across the table. Faust lifted a tired eyebrow, but Spectre shook his head. “You need it more than I do.”

Faust looked to protest a moment, opening his eyes fully again. Spectre held out the spoon, and after a moment of hesitation, Faust took it. Though he still seemed guilty about taking away Spectre’s food, he dug in all the same.

“This is nostalgic,” Faust muttered, his expression a smile. Spectre nodded, though he thought they may have been thinking of different eras. It was difficult to tell without prying, and that was one of the few things he’d learned to be careful of around the angels.

Spectre stood from the table. “Then, I’ll be going. My preparations may take a while. The Princess is… willful.”

Genome muttered something indistinguishable from the other side of the room, to which Faust sent him an exasperated glance before turning back to Spectre.

“Be safe,” he called after Spectre as he stepped through the cracks of reality, cutting sharp a path between here and the Princess’ room.

 _I will_ , he did not have the time to call back before the space between worlds caught him up, but he knew it would be understood. Still, he regretted not having the time to say the words, this time. He’d only have to hope for the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO SHOW THIS AMAZING AMAZING ART SOME LOVE ON [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/astrobreaks/status/1033343326332874753) TOO!!! (Please do I start yelling every time I see it ;;)


	14. XIII [A Meeting of Curses]

Hayami was going to be executed for this. She was most certainly going to be executed, because no matter how much she daydreamed, she was certainly not a Zaizen, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to be allowed into the ancestral armory of the _Zaizen family under any circumstances_.

Even the High Council was hardly allowed access, and those _hardlies_ came only in times of regency- after the death of the Queen, there had been a brief moment where the Council had slipped in and out, trying to find a proper weapon for His Majesty before his official coronation- but that access was only allowed on a technicality, since the councilmembers were all descended from the noble families that had supported the First King when they’d first set from Vrains and first defeated Hanoi.

She was not allowed to slip into the room, left unguarded with the extra men sent to stand before the Princess’ chambers. She was not allowed to pull out a carefully coded list of items that Aoi required, left outside her window and lowered carefully into its hiding place in a bush outside by a long hook and a wire. And Hayami was very much _not_ allowed to be shuffling through the elegantly kept displays of jewelry, humming with magic dormant but strong enough that even she, with her utter lack of knowledge about anything magic, could sense something strange in the air. She was not allowed to be picking through them for the very specific set of accessories that Aoi had described to her, nor was she allowed to carefully pluck the box containing them from storage to shove into the small satchel full of emergency supplies that she’d taken to carrying around the past few days. Not that she could do much if an angel landed before her, but Hayami believed it was the thought that counted.

Though the things in it weren’t supplies. Not right now.

Hayami scurried back to the door, heels silent against the carpet, took a breath and held it as she prayed, then opened the door just a crack, glancing out into the hall- still empty. With all the haste she could muster Hayami slipped out and closed the door firmly shut behind her. She then walked in very careful, very measured steps towards the Princess’ chambers. _Natural, Hayami, walk naturally_.

She turned the corner towards the residential hall, still seeing no one but the guards at the very end of the hall, standing on either side of the grand doors into Aoi’s rooms.

“The Princess requested me?” Hayami said to the guards outside the Princess’ chambers, her voice squeaking in a way she thought she’d left behind at sixteen.

The guards glanced over her, then between themselves, then nodded. “Minister Hayami,” said the one on the left, “you’ve been granted permission to see Her Highness. Please keep your visit brief and provide no information as to the state of the city.”

“Right,” said Hayami, and opened the door herself, seeing as the guards didn’t seem keen on doing it for her. She scurried through the Princess’ chambers, making straight for the back room. She was there just as the door in the main foyer closed softly behind her.

“Hayami,” Aoi said, standing as Hayami pushed her way through the doors to the bedroom- leaving the guards behind, thankfully. She’d prepared about a dozen excuses on the way over and had been prepared to use at least three of them to get in without supervision, but it seemed that the guards hadn’t been ordered to go in with her. “Did you…”

Aoi glanced around Hayami, glancing out into her empty chambers. Hayami swiftly closed the door behind her. “There’s nothing to worry about. The guards are outside the main door, now. I brought everything you asked for.”

Hayami dug the box swiftly out of her bag and handed it over to Aoi. She opened it immediately, and her expression lit up- not so brightly as it had when she was a child, but with more strength to it, now. Aoi set the box down and immediately set about putting her jewelry on- first her earrings, then the bandles around her wrists, a gold pin in her hair. Finally the ring, slipped onto her finger like a royal insignia. Hayami almost thought that moment like a crowning.

“Hayami…” Aoi started, earrings dangling soft as she tilted her head upwards to meet Hayami’s eyes, “Do you remember the dreams I used to tell you about? When I was little, and you were still my assistant.”

Hayami smiled- Aoi’s wording was always so generous. _Maid_ had been more the term. But more to the point- she couldn’t forget. Aoi’s stories had been so carefully told, every word trying to drag Hayami’s imagination into the dream of this faraway graveyard. Even after all these years, Hayami still felt sometimes as if she really had been there herself, just from how clearly she could visualize Aoi’s stories. Of the boy and the girl, crawling the earth, of the strange figure that lived in the graveyard they once found. “Of course I do! Which one?”

“I’ve… been having them again, recently,” admitted Aoi, “They stopped for a long time, but tonight I saw one that I’d forgotten about. I don’t think I ever told you this one.”

“Then you could tell me now,” Hayami, smiling her most reassuring smile. She knew Aoi had stopped telling the council about her dreams, after a while. She hadn’t realized that Aoi had stopped confiding in her, too. But she supposed it was only natural. As she’d made her career in the palace she’d grown closer to the Council and its politics, and further from Aoi. Everyone had, in the end. Hayami could only hope that Aoi didn’t think too terribly of her for it.

“Okay,” Aoi said, closing her eyes and remembering a place far, far away from here, “The dream was different. I knew this…”

 

This dream was different from some of the others. She knew it because the world felt heavy in her eyes, felt blurry and indistinct. The weight of her body was not her own; when she moved she moved as an avatar of herself, an existence her own but simultaneously different, separate from her. It was an odd sort of dissonance, and left Aoi nothing to do but try and blink away the haziness from her vision.

It didn’t quite clear entirely, and it left Aoi feeling as if she was watching the world through a filter, through a warped piece of glass that was dirty on the other side. No matter how much she scrubbed at it, it wouldn’t clear, leaving her no choice but to sit back and watch patiently.

“Who are you?” a question, ringing in her ears. A figure stepped into view- a child, not much older than herself. She couldn’t see their face. No matter how much she squinted up at it or tried to turn her head, it was as if their face had been removed from the dream entirely. A void. A patchwork barrier in her mind. The person didn’t seem to realize this. They continued- “You were cursed, weren’t you?”

She didn’t know the voice. By now the voices of her dreams had become familiar, same as the trills of her guardians or the faces of the staff that moved around the Palace, watching over her with gentle eyes.

When she had first dreamt this distant vision as a child, she hadn’t understood what it had meant. At the time she hadn’t knowledge of curses or even the extent of her own magic. She had understood curses as things of her storybooks and fairytales and very little else.

Whatever she did, whatever the person saw in her then, Aoi didn’t know. But they must have taken it as confirmation, because they made a small little noise, one caught between understanding and pity. They said, “I can break that curse for you. If you trust me, and come with me, then I can save you. I promise.”

Aoi reached out to take the stranger’s hand before she knew it, and they pulled her to her feet as Aoi blinked awake, jerking upright to the certainty she was falling on unsteady legs-

 

“You think someone cursed you?” whispered Hayami, dropping her voice out of instinct lest she let anything more than a scandalized gasp escape her.

“I’m sure of it, Hayami,” Aoi replied, “because why else would the Council and His Majesty try and keep me from my magic unless there was something terrible behind it? Witch’s charms and family heirlooms are one thing, but blood magic is my right, too.”

“But if someone cursed you, wouldn’t you remember? Even in a dream, even if you were young…” Hayami trailed off. She was immeasurably out of her depth. Not for the first time in her life, she wished herself a witch.  

“If I was a baby, then I wouldn’t. And maybe… I don’t know. Maybe my mother was keeping it a secret until I could understand, but then there was the accident, and-” Aoi stopped abruptly. Hayami didn’t press her to continue. She knew not what Aoi had seen that day a decade ago, but whatever it was, it still frightened her. Though Aoi would never admit to fear, of course, the brave young woman she’d become.

After a moment Aoi gathered herself and continued on her own, “But if something about me was cursed, and if that person from my memories fixed it, then… Then I need to find out the truth. And everything that you brought me is going to do it. So thank you.”

Aoi smiled, and Hayami returned it. They stayed that way just a moment before Aoi turned to her side, glancing towards the open window. “What did I tell you about staying hidden? Just show yourself. She’s trustworthy.”

Appearing in shatters of moonlight the boy materialized, carried in shards of white and the gentle browns and pinks of wings like tree branches. Hayami almost shrieked- very nearly almost. If she really had been fourteen again, she would have.

“Your Highness,” said the boy with an impeccable bow, “My apologies. I thought not to disturb the moment.”

Aoi rolled her eyes just before the boy straightened up, crossing the room to them. Hayami got the sense she wanted to say something akin to _your arrival disturbed the moment_. But she turned back to Hayami all the same, that determination set in every line of her, ever bone and every drop of blood.

“I may not be back for a while,” Aoi said, but there was no sadness, no trepidation in her voice.

“Be safe, Princess. And when you do come back, come back strong as you can be.” Hayami smiled and took Aoi’s hand a moment in hers, the way she used to do as a maid comforting a child whose family had vanished from her.

“I will. Thank you, Hayami,” Aoi said, and stepped forward to take the boy’s proffered hand. He pulled Aoi towards him, slightly, and then the two of them were gone, vanished in a strange wavering of air that distorted the world around them through a sheen of blue like the backside of a mirror.

“Courage, Aoi,” said Hayami, then pushed a stray piece of hair back behind her ear, turned around, and started back towards the council rooms.. Aoi was out there fighting, and Hayami couldn’t slack off either. She had work to do.

* * *

The purification ritual was surprisingly simple- Spectre handled the sprinkling of water and blood around the small, empty area of the graveyard where no graves had yet to be set. She squinted and attempted to memorize each circle and triangle as he made them around the square of the circuit, but found quickly that it was too complex to memorize accurately. Still, she ran the lines of it over and over in her mind. She didn’t know for sure, but having the basic outline of it might end up helpful in her research, especially if she couldn’t get anything out of Spectre himself.

“Why is this necessary, exactly?” she asked as Spectre put down one vial of what she presumed was blood for another, “No other type of summoning I’ve seen detailed requires you to purify the space before you use it.”

“There are various reasons,” Spectre replied, holding up the vial to the moonlight and contemplating it a moment before setting it down again and picking up another, “but the main one is this. What you summon are fragments of soul that have gained sentience when exposed to magic. They’re akin to the Ignises, as you will. It’s of no matter if a fragment breaks when you drag it through the barrier between worlds, because it can supplement the missing pieces with the magic of the summoner, and regain them when it returns back to its original realm. On the other hand, what I intend on summoning is a soul in its entirety. There is no room for it to fracture.”

Spectre glanced over at her. “Do you understand?”

It was both a question and a threat. Aoi nodded. She shuddered to think what would happen if the Ignis burst free of its bonds- the terms of the contract dictated it would go to her, but that meant nothing if the neither of them could bring it back in one piece. Or, more worryingly- if neither of them could stop it.

Aoi watched for a while longer, but eventually Spectre stepped back, glancing down at his work as if appraising it before nodding. He stepped back into the circuit.

“Why exactly do I need to be here for this?” Aoi asked. Spectre let out a shallow breath that might have been a sigh and pushed back his bangs before extending a hand to her.

“Come here. This requires the magic of each person performing the summoning to be complete. It assures that neither of us will suffer a flashback if the summoning fails, or in the more likely event that an outside force interferes.”

Aoi took his hand, the both of their fingers turned cold in the night air, and followed Spectre’s lead. His magic slipped from his feet, curling soft over the grass and tracing faint lines through the rough of the circuit. Aoi did the same, letting hers spill out to chase his in two shades of whitish-blue.

It danced out in a wave, then subsided just as quickly as it had come. Their magic died down, and the two of them breathed for a moment as the circuit sparked at its edges, preventing them from moving out. The last of them were fading when a voice rang out, too loud for the night- “Oh? It’s the Princess. Live and in the flesh! An unusual sight.”

Aoi started, leaping around to face the new arrival. She squinted her eyes against the fading light, blinking away the stars in her vision to get a better look at the new angel. His appearance was that of a man- a yellow-green tint to his hair and a curious smirk on his face. He addressed Aoi, but seemingly only for his own amusement. His wings too were spindly, half-feathered things that he ruffled slightly as he caught sight of her staring.

“Do you have business with me?” Aoi said, throwing her royal manner back on. She was a bit alarmed she’d started to slip so naturally away from it in Spectre’s presence in the first place.

The angel shook his head. “With you? Not now. Though I’d love to get a look at you later. Do you know, Princess, how interesting your line is? The family resemblance is-” the angel almost snorted but seemed to hold himself back at the last moment- “absolutely incredible. Really.”

“His Majesty and I are not related by blood,” Aoi said, trying to suss out what exactly the angel meant by that- her mother, perhaps, but she hardly remembered her mother’s face. Her closest memory was a portrait that hung in the foyer of her chambers, but it paled to what she imagined the reality must have been.

“No, of course, you’re not,” said the angel, then turned away from her, yellow gaze slipping away towards Spectre. “I brought what you needed.”

The angel held out a pouch that rattled hollow with the sound Aoi knew very well to be bone against bone. Spectre crossed the distance quickly to take it. “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t thank me. Faust got distracted and forgot to give it to you before you went out.”

“And he’s-” Spectre began, but the other angel talked over him.

“Resting. I’ll go back to keep an eye on all the problems, don’t worry. Keep working on this. You’re better for it than any of us.”

Spectre nodded. “I’ll be done shortly. If anything arises-”

“Kid,” said the angel, “We can handle the city. Focus on this.”

His tone had taken on something almost a little chiding. Aoi watched as Spectre nodded and wondered about things that only the angels were privy to.

“See you, Princess,” said the angel, then stepped off in a flash of light. Not so much as a feather from his shedding wings was left of him.

Spectre glanced inside the pouch of bones, nodded, then set it down with the rest of his supplies and turned back to Aoi.

“Then,” said Spectre, “we’re done here. I’ll return you to wherever you like, and we’ll meet again in four days for the summoning proper.”

“Wait,” Aoi said, “I want to summon my guardians here. I can’t help you scout for the Ignis or the Sentinel without them.”

“Very well. Take what you need. Faust brought more than enough bones for a few guardians.” Spectre replied, and stepped aside, kneeling down to continue working on the circuit, wings brushing the ground as he ground the bone down into dust.

Aoi rifled through the pouch. Best she could tell, the bones inside were all from birds or rats- carriers of the plague. There was significance to that, Aoi was sure, but had no choice but to use them. She needed Del and Sweet, and so through the bones did she pick until she had two arrangements resembling skeletons.

Aoi walked off a slight bit, back towards the dirt path that came out to this far reach of the cemetery, and began to sketch a circuit into the ground, adding in a few petals from the flowers Spectre had amassed and using the faerie dust she’d brought along with her. Finally did she grab the knife from where it lay beside the pouch of bones- presumably to whittle them down, as Aoi doubted angels did something so human as bleed.

“You don’t need to do that,” Spectre said, and Aoi glanced up at him, pulled the knife away from her finger. He wasn’t looking at her, gone back to the bag of bones, but she got the sense he was watching from his peripherals as he sorted through.

“What?”

“It’s a fallacy,” Spectre continued, “A misnomer. Blood magic. Anyone’s blood will do, so long as there’s a witch to imbue the circuit with magic. The owner of the blood bears no relation.”

“That… isn’t what any of the books of magic say,” Aoi protested, the pieces starting to fall into place in her mind. Stories of witches killed for amassing too many theories of magic were not uncommon. So the books that remained were naturally… Aoi frowned.

“I seek only to spare you pain,” said Spectre, terribly dry, “but if you don’t believe me, feel free to injure yourself.”

“Then you have something I can use?” Aoi said, and held out an expectant hand. Spectre trailed a finger over the vials before plucking one delicate from its place. He brought it over to her and presented it with a flourish. Aoi pretended not to be offended- something this boy was making her remarkably good at.

“Cat’s blood. It should serve you well enough,” said Spectre, then retreated back to his own circuit as Aoi examined the vial. It was untouched, so far as Aoi could tell. When she sparked her magic through it, she could not tell the touch of any other, the way she could when she tried to use a charm not of her heritage. “Then what about witchcharms? Why won’t charms outside my heritage respond?”

Spectre glanced over her, lingering long on every piece of jewelry. His lips curled into a smirk, and he said, “Princess. You truly understand so very little.”

He turned his back and left Aoi to her own devices, conversation effectively ended. Aoi, deciding she had nothing to lose, pulled the stopper from the bottle and painted the circuit markers with it, trailing it over her fingers, trying to sense any magic she couldn’t through the glass- but couldn’t sense anything amiss from it. At her feet the circuit began to spark with magic, ready for her to seize out and pull.

Again did she think of the words- slightly different, this time, for different guardians. It had been a small age since she’d summoned Del and Sweet, and Aoi found herself feeling bad about it, especially now that she’d had a chance to speak to Del with the same words. She hoped they hadn’t been terribly lonely.

The summoning pulled at her magic in old, familiar ways, though something about the direction the magic quirked and pulled seemed different, as if one of the sparks were different, less connected to her- but she supposed that it must have been the blood. And the hesitation only lasted a moment- in a small flash of blue light Del and Sweet appeared before her, unfurling their wings from the flower petals and stretching their limbs out with soft trills. Aoi was relieved at the sight of her guardians. For a moment the summoning had seemed strange, as if the world was about to fall away from her again. In the middle of the graveyard, she’d have no bed upon which to call sanctuary.

“Del, Sweet,” she said, holding out her palms for her fae to rest on them-

“Here,” said Spectre, and the eyes of her fae went blank and hollow, their movements stiff- as if they’d become dolls, marionettes moving on someone else’s strings. In jerky motions the two guardians took to the air and flew over Aoi’s shoulders, passing her as if she wasn’t even there

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” Aoi protested, turning on Spectre with an anger that sparked almost to magic but stayed just short, buried beneath the weight of their contract. “Those are _my_ guardians. They’re bound to me by blood, you can’t just _take_ them from me!”

Sweet and Del alighted on Spectre’s shoulders, standing out stark against the white of his clothes. They looked at Aoi, but they stared straight through her without seeing. “Apologies,” said Spectre in a tone that was nothing but self-important, “but these two I simply can’t let you have.”

“I don’t mean permission,” Aoi said, taking another step forwards and forcing her magic down. She took a breath, and knew that Spectre could very well choose to say she’d violated their contract with one wrong word or action. “Blood magic can’t be changed. It’s unique. It’s…”

Spectre turned up his nose at her. “Once again, Your Highness, you find yourself wrong. Nothing is as you think it is.”

“And you won’t tell me, will you.” A statement, not a question, just challenging Spectre to prove her wrong.

“This time?” said Spectre, “No.”

Then all that meant was she had to figure it out for herself. “That blood. You gave me-”

Spectre all but rolled his eyes. “Dare I remind you, Princess, that like the Sentinels of their creation, Angels don’t bleed?”

Aoi hissed, but couldn’t deny it. The ways of wounding an angel were perhaps the one source on angels she could trust, handed down by her ancestors who’d been participants in the last War Game. They bled magic, and nothing more.

“Now,” continued Spectre, “if we’re done here? Or would you like to summon a few guardians more appropriate?”

Aoi clenched her hands into fists, clenching tight the half-empty bottle in her hand. “I’ll summon more.”

There was no other choice. Del and Sweet sat lifeless on Spectre’s shoulders, and Aoi did the only thing she could- turned her attention back to her answers, and back towards the angels she’d have to fight.


	15. XIV [What They Must Be]

“Another dead end?” Ema said, turning her way through the labyrinth of bleeding walls that had formed itself out of the shards of the shattered palace only to be met with a solid wall. “I thought I remembered this place a bit better than that.”

“Oi, Oi, you’ve been here before?” Ai chimed from her wrist, eye flicking frantically between her and the wall. Ema shook her head at him. Anyone would think that they were being chased, the way he was acting.

“Of course I have,” Ema said, rapping on the wall with her knuckles. Once she was satisfied it wouldn’t give, she turned on her heel and started back the way she had come. The hall was impossibly silent, save the click of her boots against the uneven stone, and impossibly long- though it had looked normal when she’d first turned down it, it now stretched as far as the eye could see. “What kind of treasure hunter hasn’t explored another world or two? Even if one of them happens to be hell?”

Ai fidgeted more. Ema wondered mildly if he actually saw anything with that eye, or if it was more just a representation of a body for him. He muttered, “Listen, let’s just get out of here… You should know how to do that, shouldn’t you? If you’ve been here before?”

“I do,” Ema said, glancing up to the air where her blood hung in the unnatural, gloomy purplish light of the hall. It flew in circles a moment, the drops pulsing soft a moment in the air like their namesake, then began to dart down the hall, one after the other. Ema followed.

“Great! Perfect! So how do we do it?”

“It’s simple,” Ema said, following the firefly drops of her magic as they took a sharp left floated through what seemed to be a solid wall, patterned in the same wallpaper of her hideaway, plastered dubiously over the palace walls.

“Hey, hey! You’re-” Ai said, but they phased through it easily, the world bending around them to accommodate. “Oh.”

“Are you done?” Ema asked, lifting her wrist to look down at Ai. He squinted in what Ema supposed was representative of sheepishness, and wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Done,” he chirped, and Ema sighed. They were no longer inside a crumbling cognition of the palace, which she supposed served her well enough. Her fireflies had taken on a slight glow, cast green as if they were beneath a deep ocean, illuminating the darkness around her.

Ema frowned at what she saw. This place too was familiar, though shattered and fragmented, objects splicing meaninglessly into each other as pillars stood in two halves, the tops hanging useless in the air and the bottoms hovered a meter above the scattered tiles. _The Tomb._

She knew it was only a representation, the same way Revolver’s mirror had been, but the tomb in any form was nothing but bad memories.

“So… How do we get out, exactly?” Ai asked, breaking her train of thought.

Ema descended down into the fake tomb in a few light steps, leaping down the scattered stairs with impeccable balance, neatly avoiding the slices of void in between. “The easiest way out is if someone summons you back. Of course, since no one’s going to be doing that for us, we’ll have to take the hard way.”

Ai hummed unpleasantly. “What’s the hard way?”

Ema leapt down another step, then judged the distance to the next and took it in a bounding step scarcely after she’d landed. Ai made another horrible noise, but Ema talked over him. “We catch the tail end of a flashback. It won’t be pleasant.”

“You’re sure no one will help us with the easy way?” Ai settled down as she landed on the relatively stable tile floor. Ema elected not to tell him that it could fall apart at any moment, judging from the way the void was clawing at its edges.

“Unless you have comrades you’d like to tell me can summon the both of us up from the other side, then no. You’ll survive. It’ll hurt, but you’ll survive.”

“I don’t want it to hurt, though,” said Ai, and Ema lifted her wrist to lift an eyebrow at him. _I thought you were supposed to be playing at being a god, not a child?_

Ai grumbled, but didn’t reply properly. Feeling as if she’d won that conversation, Ema glanced back up at her fireflies, flitting through the air in aimless circles. _Already?_ Thought Ema, not displeased. The sooner she returned to the normal plane the sooner she could resume her hunt.

“We’ll wait here. A flashback will happen soon.”

Ai hummed, then said, “Hey, can I ask you a question? You didn’t just walk into hell though, right?”

“What, you have to let the mysterious beauty keep some of her secrets,” Ema said, smiling down at Ai, “or else she loses her appeal. Don’t you know?”

“No, but really…” Ai said, and Ema sighed, relented.

“You could say I was cursed.”

“Oh! The brand?”

“What did I say about letting me have my secrets?” Ema asked. Ai made a terrible huffing noise, and she thought him entirely like a child then. Not that he was a proper god in the first place, but… Ema sighed. There was no use in thinking so much on it. Her treasures were still first priority. Holding this Ignis was just another bargaining chip, if that’s what it came down to.

The air began to taste different- mixed in with the overwhelming stale rot, there was the hint of a breeze. Magic sharp as sparks began to dance up and down her body, making her hair stand on end. Ema could practically taste the thick of it. A flashback was coming, but in the wrong direction. She doubted that anyone wanted to enter hell- something searing and red tore through the air, and the exposed hair on her arms stood on end as the brand on her neck pulsed. She’d just have to see who was caught up in the whims of this place, familiar in all the wrong ways.

Ema concentrated, focusing in on that single skipped beat of her heart- and stood utterly still in the darkness as the two figures spilled out in pieces and fragments onto the wavering ground at her feet. She recognized them both immediately- the first was Go Onizuka, who cut a recognizable figure both in and out of the ring- and the second was Playmaker, a face she’d find herself troubled to forget. The two of them were on edge and sparking with magic before they’d so much as gained their bearings in the world that had doubtless just fallen away for them.

“Oi, that’s-”

Ema slapped her hand over the gauntlet, and it got Ai to stop talking for a moment, at the very least. He’d been doing so well at staying quiet, she’d forgotten how much he seemed to enjoy talking. If she had any hope that the sound wouldn’t carry, then it was quickly shattered.

“Did you hear that?” Go hissed, though it came out loud, with an air of challenge. Ema watched him and thought that it was good they’d landed in front of her- even on the plains of hell and that of a flashback, she could hardly risk more movement.

Yusaku glanced around, gaze lingering long on the space where Ema stood. She knew full well that the worlds they were seeing were likely not the same, but she couldn’t make a guess as to what was on their end. He muttered, soft and tense- “Someone’s there.”

“Where?” Go asked, following Yusaku’s gaze. He took confident steps closer, all but charging forth with magic pulsing at his fingertips, strong and central. Ai began to fidget terribly, and Ema could swear that the gauntlet was rattling on her arm. Ema didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink or breathe. Go stood in front of her, moving with no intent to stop- and stepped straight through her.

Ema heard a few more steps echo back to her, though if he’d felt any discomfort at passing through the phantom of someone, then he certainly didn’t express it. Eventually he stopped, and Ema imagined that he’d reached the borderline of the flashback’s domain. Go made a noise of disappointment. “So they’re out there somewhere.”

“Don’t go after it,” said Yusaku, gaze shifting from whatever abnormality he could see where Ema was standing and over to Go. “Something is about to happen again.”

“How do you know that?”

Yusaku shifted on his feet, gaze flicking away from Ema and towards the ground at his feet- though to Ema, it just looked like the rest of the void. “I just… do. You’re going to have to trust that. It’s an instinct.”

Go made another noise, not quite satisfied by Yusaku’s answer, but returned to the point of origin. The two of them stood uneasily beside each other a moment, taking in the world around them. Ema could sense it too- the uneven slide of the worlds against each other, the manic energy radiating out from the breaks and the cracks that were forming.

“Ummm,” Ai hummed, quiet on her wrist, “I know you wanted me to be quiet, miss mysterious treasure hunter… But this doesn’t feel right.”

“I know. When it snaps,” Ema said, soft as the world rumbled around them, magic falling in bits and pieces as the two perceptions began to rattle and clash, “seize it. And don’t let go, no matter what.”

The shaking of the world intensified; even Ema felt as if the world was rolling like waves beneath her feet, hellmagic roiling and spilling out around her in nonsensical, dizzying waves. Ai hummed again, but it was even more nervous than before, if such a thing was possible. “I think you’re going to have to do all the holding on.”

 _What a strange excuse for something that tried to call itself a god,_ Ema thought, and readied herself as Go and Yusaku in her sights grew blurry and indistinct as layers of dark red magic began to weave their way across and around the affected area. But he was right. Something about this wasn’t right. Ema reached out her right hand to take hold of the first of the lines, judging one around shoulder height just strong enough-

“Enemy!”

The beast snarled, and leapt through the lines, snarling and snapping at Ema’s arm. It crashed against her just as she lifted her left arm to snap its jaws away, and Ema was tossed back from the flashback, skidding hard against a burst of hellmagic that burned at the exposed skin at the back of her neck. Ema rolled back to her feet neatly as the Ignis yelled nonsense- Ema tuned it out and focused on her attacker. The flashback disappeared, taking Go and Yusaku firmly back with it, and the crack between the worlds sealed itself up neatly. In the air, something pulsed burning and putrid. Ema held her breath and watched as a hellhound pulled itself out from the dark.

Ema, in a rare moment of panic, froze.

It had been a very long time since Ema had seen a genuine hellhound, and its appearance now startled her- never before had she run afoul of one, only alongside. It was no mockery, the way that gravekeeper’s hound played at harnessing magic beyond its power. The hellhound stalked closer to her one step at a time, fangs bared and eyes burning with golden impulse. It was nearly the size of her.

“Tell me you’ve got offensive magic,” said Ai as Ema lifted her arm before her as a guard, “Hey, hey! Don’t use me as a shield!”

The hound growled and padded forth, stalking her with eyes that glowed a strange blue almost dark as the void around them. Without warning it leapt forth- and so did Ema. She jumped into the air, higher than one would have thought possible. She felt for a moment weightless, flying as her sense of self briefly dissolved down into nothing- and then landed softly on top of one of the hovering pillars, staring down at the hellhound as it sniffed the air, searching for traces of her magic.

Ema watched as the hound’s fur bristled into intimidating spikes, and its head swiveled quick up to her. Ema sucked in a breath and launched herself off the platform, falling again to pieces before reappearing atop a clipped statue, hovering useless in the air above the King’s grave.

A growl from behind her- Ema sprang up into the air and the hound flew under her, just missing the end of her hair as its maw gaped, then snapped shut again. Ema landed firmly atop the hound, slamming it down with an elbow to the back against the stone statue. It went still with a whimper, the magic seeping out of it with a brush of silver streaked with gold pooling out over the cognition of the King’s grave. She’d only have this opening a moment. Ema plunged a hand into its back, feeling the magic that held it together open to accommodate- and recoiled against the feeling her fingers brushed against.

“Oi oi, here comes another one!” Ai yelled, and Ema scarcely had time to turn her head before another hellhound lunged at her from the receding darkness.

Ema scrambled to put up a shield as Ai’s power thrummed on her wrist and the hound went straight for her throat- and something in the world snapped. It did so without warning, without Ema even realizing that something in it was fraying. A gust of red energy sent the hellhound blown back into the darkness, scattered into its component magic. Ema found herself pressed into the ground with a weight that tried to dig into her ribs, to tear through her lungs and rip her to shreds.

The brand on the back of her neck ached terribly. Ai spluttered from her wrist- “I don’t like this! I don’t like this at all.”

“Neither do I,” Ema bit out, and tried to focus around the useless bite of panic she always felt when she saw her escape routes disappearing one after the other. After a moment of pressing her magic against it the pressure released her- though she knew it to be no action of her own. The way the red force slipped back spoke of something stretched too far, snapping back because it had overestimated the lengths to which it could go.  

Ai let out a comically loud breath for a creature that had no need to breathe, and Ema took a deep breath in, though the air of hell always tasted stale in her lungs. Dust and crumbling. Heavy and without relief. She pushed herself up, scanning for any further hellhounds lurking in the shadows but finding none.

The world had again shifted around them, and no longer were they in the mockery of the King’s tomb. Ema still recognized their surroundings, though- it was a stage that she was uncomfortably familiar with. Something in her gut twisted just at the sight of the trees fallen out in a circle around the cabin, at the fluttering patches of flame that she knew would never catch properly to the blaze that they suggested- at least not in this altered reality.

“So, what now?” Ai asked.

Ema sighed, and took a step forwards. “We go find another flashback. And avoid those hounds. Something is wrong.”

“You don’t say!” Ai bit out, but seemed to have no other protest as Ema picked her way through the debris, marking out a path through the woods, down from the mountainside. No longer could she sense the hound or the threat that had attacked them, but no longer could she sense any sign of a flashback.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll make it back. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

“You’re really confident about that, aren’t you?” Ai said, and Ema lifted her wrist to smile down at him.

“I have to be.”

* * *

Kyoko fluttered back into the home the angels were using as their base of operations with a sigh. She tried to hide how tired she was, only to nearly stumble taking her shoes off in the entranceway. Luckily, no one happened to be passing by to see it. Still, she sighed again- rarely did she feel her age in her bones, but today was one of those where it weighed heavy on her mind, dragging the rest of her down with it.

Kyoko shook her head, rolled back her shoulders and pushed back a stray bit of her bangs, and stepped up into the house proper. It wouldn’t due to have anyone worrying over her when it was just a mere bit of exhaustion- the normal kind, not anything that worried at her magic or her mind. It had been a long day in a series of days that only stretched on longer as spring tried to give way to a deathly sort of summer. Kyoko stepped up into the house proper, into view of the kitchen and living rooms, both of them open.

Just a moment’s observation revealed Genome alone was awake in the house- he was sitting at the kitchen table, writing something into his notes in near-illegible scrawl. Not because it was messy, but because it was impossibly small- his nose was practically touching the paper, with how close he was bent over it. It didn’t mean he’d dropped his attention, though- the second she was inside, he called- “Nice to see you in one piece, Kyoko.”

“Glad to be in one,” she replied with a soft shake of her head. Even after a millennia of Genome’s greetings, they’d never cease to bewilder her. “Spectre hasn’t returned yet?”

He’d been the one supposed to take their next shift, though all of the angels had protested- there were more important things for him to be spending his energy on. But Spectre was wise beyond his years, and one pointed glance between them and a vague comment about saving energy had been enough to let him have his way.

“Nope. He’s out there though. Don’t worry about it,” Genome said, still into his notes. He scribbled down another line, then finally lifted his head. He looked her over, then looked her over again before lifting an eyebrow. Kyoko crossed her arms and gave him a flat look, and he chose to hold his tongue.

“How is Aso?” she asked. She could vaguely sense the beat of the magic she’d come to associate with him from above, likely in the bedroom. It was much calmer than it had been before, and she couldn’t stop the rush of relief that came over her. He’d been in a state when she’d gone to take over for him, and though she knew better than to underestimate a fellow angel, she had been a bit worried that he’d burned off too much energy.

“Fine as he can be,” Genome replied, “been sleeping since you took over for him. Almost. Spectre gave him most of the curry, said he needed it. Which he did, so don’t be too hard on the kid when he comes back.”

Aso, eating her cooking- that brought back pleasant memories of an age so far gone she’d worried she’d forgotten it. Not that she could- those long ago days were seared into her memory alongside the memories of their cause, their fights, their mistakes.

“I’m glad,” she said, “and I won’t. Genome, can-”

Kyoko’s magic sparked with the memory of a flame, then, searing an address and an image into her mind. A father, curling desperate around his collapsed daughter as he strained to reach a candle at her bedside, the card vanishing to ash between his fingers. Though that momentary bond she could sense only desperation.

Genome let out a long, obnoxious sigh. “Kyoko, are you really-”

“I will _not_ let another child die, Genome. The centuries might have made you impartial, but not me. I can’t allow it.”

Genome sighed again, though this one was much more resigned. “If you’re going out, then be careful. There’s a whole horde of nasty things walking the streets the past few days.” He paused, then- “And take the kid the fruit basket.”

Kyoko looked over her shoulder, following the lazy point of Genome’s finger- and sure enough, there was a fruit basket on the kitchen counter, a basket full of apples and small jars of berries. Kyoko blinked down at it for a moment- where in the world had Genome managed to find _apples_ so out of season without leaving the range of his magic- but shook her head and thought it better not to ask.

“Thank you,” she said instead, “I’m sure that the family will be very appreciative. I’ll tell them it came from a colleague.”

“Ah, just take the credit yourself,” Genome said, immediately curling back down into her work as Kyoko crossed the room to take the basket, and her satchel of medicines sitting next to it.

“I won’t do that, Genome,” she said, turning to head back out the door, holding the memory of the location in her mind as she slipped her shoes back on. The man’s response was unintelligible, which Kyoko thought was just as well.

They both had their respective work to do, these next four days.

Now, they simply had to go out and do it.


	16. XV [Storybook Truths]

Holly and Bella flit around Aoi, trilling softly after the summoning had faded and her guardians were again in their familiar forms. She couldn’t understand a word of their speech, however, and Aoi hoped desperately that it was only a ploy to fool Spectre- though she couldn’t help but doubt that’s what it was.

“Then,” said Spectre, judging she was done with her summoning, “I’ll take you back to the palace. I’m sure your absence wasn’t missed.”

Aoi frowned at his phrasing, trying to understand if that had been an insult or a reassurance. Her eyes caught inevitably on Del and Sweet still on his shoulders, and decided on the former, even with the benefit of the doubt born of it being good for him, too, if Aoi’s escapades were kept undiscovered.

Aoi blinked. That was a thought. She said, a plan forming quick in her mind- “No.”

Spectre frowned, all but glaring at her refusal. “I’m sorry?”

“I said no,” Aoi repeated, stepping towards Spectre with all the fearsome power she’d been born with, all the intimidation and every ounce of forcefulness she possessed. “I’m not going back to the Palace tonight.”

“As I’ve said, I refuse to be your escort service,” Spectre replied, tilting his head up slightly in reply, as if to mimic looking down at her. But Aoi refused to back down. He continued, “If there’s somewhere you need to go, then I recommend you sneak out on your own. You’re quite adept at that, aren’t you? The guards that protect your palace are nothing particularly special.”

“Don’t look down on humans,” Aoi spit back, though she thought rather little of most of the guards herself. Spectre only laughed at her, nothing but patronizing. She said, before he could return with a quip and derail the conversation too far- “And that doesn’t change the fact I refuse to return to the Palace. Feel free to leave me here. I’ve handled the streets myself before. I can do it again.”

That got Spectre to stop laughing, expression curling into a frown. Seemed he was reluctant to let her have free reign of the city, just as she’d suspected. Aoi’s lips turned up into the start of a smile. If putting herself down as a bargaining chip would get her one step closer to her answers, then she would bet her own soul a dozen times over against the angels- against the one angel with whom she had a tentative truce, at the very least.

“Why don’t you take me with you?” Aoi proposed, in the moment he was gathering his response, hoping to catch him off guard.

“Unacceptable,” Spectre replied. Del and Sweet’s expressions on his shoulders turned sharp into frowns, too. Aoi’s hands almost curled into fists- she hoped it was just proximity, and that whatever strange magic he’d used wasn’t hurting them.

Aoi tilted her head and said, crossing her arms, “Why not? Lock me up in a room, if you’re so worried about what I might find there. I just don’t want to return to the Palace. That’s all there is to it.”

“You foolish, stubborn Princess,” Spectre spat, but shook his head. “Do you truly wish to spend an evening in a prison? Because there are far easier ways to be thrown into a dungeon than trying to provoke me.”

Aoi thought that was progress- eventually, Spectre would run out of reasons to deny her. She just hoped he wouldn’t drag her back by force. “Then if you’re so opposed to that, then why don’t we go hunting for the Sentinel? That _is_ the other half of the deal, isn’t it?”

“We’re trying to track him. Whatever magic that witch placed on him, it’s quite effective. Unless you propose to scour the city inch by inch, I would leave the searching to us,” Spectre replied, and Aoi blinked- she hadn’t thought he’d reveal the angel’s helplessness so easily. Spectre seemed to realize that he’d let on a word too much and covered himself, quickly- “Regardless. It seems we find ourselves at a stalemate.”

“It seems we do,” Aoi said, refusing to be the first to back down. “I’ve already told you I don’t mind having just one room of the stronghold you seem so eager to guard. But if I return to the Palace now, then I’m afraid it won’t be so easy to bring me back here the next time you want to summon back your leader.”

That got Spectre’s expression to turn to something dark- it wasn’t technically a threat, and nothing that he could accuse her of that Aoi couldn’t counter with simple fact. Someone likely had realized her absence, and they wouldn’t be keen on letting her disappear from a locked room again. But it was one, in every way that Aoi could make it.

“I’ll bring you to our hold in the city. You’ll have one room, and nowhere else. Windowless, and you’ll be allowed to leave when my business is done and you return to the castle with the Ignis. If you’re so eager for prison, then I’m happy to provide,” Spectre said dryly, though it seemed to be hiding something beyond just the acquiescence.

“And I’m happy to accept,” Aoi said, holding out a hand- palm downwards, as if awaiting a knight to kiss her hand, the final touch of the ceremony meant to induct one of the royal guard. Traditionally, at least- Aoi had no idea what Kitamura and the King did with it, the ceremony relegated to behind closed doors. Spectre doubtless noticed her ploy, but made no comment on it- only took her hand, raising his hand to hers, and all but dragged her through the distorted space.

This time seemed slower, or perhaps it was simply clearer, her vision and senses growing more used to the space they stepped through between the worlds. Within the cracks of the world Aoi felt as if she could see everything- pieces of the past, of the present, of distant lands with strange pyramids that broke through the sandy sky and of ancient Sol itself, Den City a small thing building slow a castle of wood and sun-baked tiles.

And Aoi thought too that she saw something else- something oddly familiar, nostalgic despite her certainty that she’d never once seen it in her life. A tree, standing alone in the forest clearing- burning, a woman with hands clenched together as if in prayer, bound in its center. And Aoi blinked, because surely that had only been a story, a children’s tale- but the moment she blinked the image was gone, replaced with a graveyard that she most definitely knew, three children standing together at its center-

And then everything was gone. The images tried to pull away from Aoi’s mind, but she tugged them back, determined not to let the mysteries of them fade. As she felt solid ground return to her feet once more and Spectre dropped her hand, Aoi thought that she’d succeeded.

Aoi blinked away the strange sensation of the world shifting unnaturally around her to the sight of worn wooden walls, paper peeling away, dust and dirt weighing down the loose edges. A few shelves showed sign of use, a few books stacked atop them without much semblance of order,

There were no windows, and it only made the room feel gloomy and disused, despite the fact it seemed to have been used rather recently.

“You’ll stay here,” Spectre said, stepping out the door, wings brushing against what Aoi caught as a faint glimmer of magic, though she didn’t recognize the kind. Angelic, most likely- and certainly strong. If she reached out to touch it, Aoi was certain that she wouldn’t like the result. “And food will be brought to you. I suggest you eat it. No one here has any intention of poisoning you.”

Aoi nodded. Spectre turned quickly from the door and shut it behind him- but as he did, Aoi swore that she saw Del turn her head back to her- just for a moment, a glimmer of her old self before Spectre had seized her- and then there was nothing but the grain of the door. Aoi quickly made her way across the windowless room, Holly and Bella flying from her shoulders in order to follow her.

“Can you speak to me?” Aoi asked, sitting down on the carefully made bed. Holly and Bella hovered in the air before her, and shook their heads. They trilled a few apologetic notes.

“So it’s just Del and Sweet?” she followed up. Holly and Bella nodded. _Why_ , Aoi wanted to ask, but knew that wasn’t a question that could be answered in a language of simple emotions. Still, it was as if her guardians seemed to understand her. The two of them sang soft, comforting notes, a soft melody that worked its way up into a proper song. Not all of the emotions stayed pleasant- there were a few sour notes of fear when the melody dipped, but many of them were kind. Kindness. Nostalgia. Love. Loss, pain- but never overwhelming the melody of hope. Aoi closed her eyes briefly and let it carry her away, thinking that it must have something to do with what she’d seen in the space between the worlds.

Holly and Bella’s song was not long- Aoi opened her eyes again as the last notes of their song trailed off, and they greeted her with a smile as she applauded softly. The guardians curtsied in midair and then flew off, circling their way towards the ceiling- and that was when Aoi noticed it.

“Can you get through there?” Aoi asked Holly and Bella softly, pointing up at the small hole that lead up to the rafters. Her guardians trilled with concern, but flew up to the opening all the same. There was a small flicker of magic that Aoi felt as they approached- the barrier, she assumed. She frowned, thinking of Del and Sweet, and almost called her guardians back, hoping to keep them from any injury- but then Holly was out and through without so much as a prick to their bond- just a quick swell of power from somewhere deep.

Bella hummed an excited note, and Aoi blinked- perhaps the barrier was only for humans, or perhaps it served some other purpose than simply keeping her trapped inside. To the guardians, Aoi said- “Go. Find the Sentinel, or find Go. If you can, make sure Hayami will be safe.”

Bella nodded, and then she too was gone, vanished into the darkness of the attic, hopefully to find an escape. Aoi let out a long breath, and prayed that they were successful.

And Aoi was left alone. She let out a breath, and it was too-loud in the quiet room. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected when she’d agreed to this- that she’d be dragged off to heaven, and she’d have a divine revelation? That seeing where the angels were hiding would give her some sort of insight into the strange relationship between the Sentinels and the angels?

Aoi shook her head, and instead did the only thing she could- she went to the bookshelf. There were only a few books on it, and none of them were particularly incriminating. They were the sorts of manuscripts that could be found anywhere, a few bindings of woodblock prints and a few books set with the new printing press.

One was as illustration book of Vrains, distant sceneries that Aoi thought were vaguely nostalgic, in the way that calm sceneries of distant places often were. There was nothing there of interest, so she moved on to the next- a beginner’s book of magic, a guide on how to use charms. It was standard, and Aoi spent quite a time on it, trying to understand why it was here- no angel used charms, and surely even if they did, an angel would have no use for such common knowledge. Aoi frowned, but deduced that there was no code left in it, and set the book aside.

The final two books were a set, and Aoi already knew them well. _Blue Angel_ \- the story of her distant ancestor’s companion and ally against the angels. And the other one, a fairy tale she’d been read a hundred times over in her youth- _The Cursed Boy_.

Her hand hesitated over the latter, but first Aoi flipped briefly through the first. It was a standard edition of the book, and nothing in particular stood out to her. But the second… Given what she’d dreamt of, that strange sensation of a person she didn’t recognize telling her that she’d been cursed… _If ‘Blue Angel’ is true, why not this one, too?_

Aoi took the book over to the bed with her, tracing her finger over the delicate illustration of the boy across the front. She opened the book careful of the thin yellow pages- and stopped on the first page. The words had been scratched out entirely, leaving great black marks from the spilled ink.

Aoi quickly flipped through the rest of the book. All the pages were the same, their words blotted out with ink, too cleanly not to be deliberate. Instead, Aoi flipped back to the beginning and trusted her knowledge of the story to carry her though.

It was a very simple story- the one of a boy who’d been born to a witch that lived in the mountains. But the witch was a strange soul, a woman who pulled magic from a dark source to place terrible curses on the townspeople who had banished her from the village.

Aoi stared down at the pages- the spread of the boy sitting alone before a small cabin in the woods- and frowned.That was how the story went, she was sure of it… But it was wrong. She didn’t know what, but something about it was wrong. She looked up at the text- but it had all been blotted out by strokes of an ink pen. Of course. Because… Aoi frowned, but continued to flip through the pages. It hardly mattered, after all. She’d memorized this story in her childhood, could still hear it in Hayami’s voice.

_“I want to save you,” said the girl, and oh how desperately did she mean it. She and the cursed boy shared something. She was sure of it. They understood each other. And she alone reached out a hand, promising him something that no one had dared to say before._

Aoi frowned. She felt, somehow, that had happened. But not that way. She didn’t know why, but the sense of dissonance rang through her head, teasing at something she coudn’t quite reach. Though she had no time to dwell on it- Aoi was startled by a knock on the door. The angel on the other side didn’t wait for her to answer, pushing the door open and stepping inside- shuffling in sideways to accommodate the wings at their back, the tips of them brushing near against the ground.

“I’m here for our chat,” the angel said, “because you’re an interesting specimen, Princess. No one thought you’d exist, and yet here you are. You’re defying the odds. Guess the next generation came out strong enough after all.”

Aoi blinked at him, feeling defensive. She wondered if talking over her head was something all the angels did as an insult, or if Spectre and her new visitor simply had that in common. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve always been interested in the strongest witches of the generations. Which ones rise, what families they come from, which ones choke on their own pride and die in a ditch. Those kinds of things,” said the angel with a flourish of his wings. Aoi only wished she knew what that meant- she tried to keep focus on his face, but the one eye glowing a terrifying, sickly yellow was enough of a deterrent to let her gaze wander back to the sparsely-feathered wings.

“So of course you’re interested in the Zaizens,” Aoi replied, and wondered why the angels insisted on starting conversations with her from which she’d likely get no answers. The angel pulled his wings back in, and that forced her to make eye contact again.

“The Zaizens have always been an interesting brand of witch. All of them strong- except the ones who weren’t, of course, but they tend to die young. And easy to keep track of, too. It’s so hard in the modern day with all this ‘changing your name at marriage’ nonsense.” The angel waved his hand, a clear dismissal of modern tradition that Aoi couldn’t have cared less about- if she married, she’d always keep her name. That was the Zaizen’s pride, their matriarchal tradition of the old days held from the days of Vrains.

“Which reminds me,” Aoi said, “what should I call you? Calling all of you ‘angel’ in my head is a little repetitive.”

“Genome,” said the angel, “Doctor Genome, if you want to be formal. But a Princess does have more rank, doesn’t she? But you’re getting me off topic. I want to know about your magic, Princess.”

 _You and me both_ , Aoi thought, but knew unwise to say. In the meantime, Genome finally came over to hand her the tray. Atop it was a selection of food- much less than she’d get if she’d stayed in the Palace, served in chipped dishes, smelling unfamiliar but delicious all the same. Aoi surveyed the tray- a place of what looked to be curry, bread with melted butter, and a glass of water.

Genome flicked a wing at her, encouraging her to eat. Aoi picked up her spoon and tentatively took a bite of curry- it was good, and calming in a way she couldn’t properly explain. She swallowed, then replied- “Well? What about it do you want to know?”

“Just a few things, really,” said Genome in the tone of voice of someone who had a long list of things they wanted to know but truly thought it very little. Aoi wouldn’t complain- the more they talked, the more chances Aoi would have to pry information out of him about Sentinels, or about the misconceptions Spectre kept insisting her magic had. (And if Aoi was honest- she knew that he was probably right.)

Genome continued- “First question, Princess. How much do you remember?”

“I’m sorry? Is that supposed to have a specific meaning?” Aoi asked, blinking away her surprise. She’d hoped his questions would be sensible, at least, but she had no way to make meaning of that.

Genome waved his hand, and a wing. Aoi wondered if it was conscious or not. He said- “Just a general question, Princess. How’s your memory? Patchy? Prone to breaks? Been getting worse as of late?”

Aoi shook her head. “No. It’s been perfectly fine. I’d even say it was getting better than before. I don’t think I’ll be forgetting the last few days any time soon.”

Genome hummed, then waved his other hand. An old, scribbled over newspaper and a pen appeared before him, and he scribbled down something in the margins of the paper before he vanished them away again not a dozen seconds later.

“Second question. How’ve your dreams been, Princess? Seen anything interesting, lately?” Genome’s tone wasn’t light, but it wasn’t quite a threat, either. Aoi supposed that if they were going this route, she could try to pull information out of him, too.

“A few new ones. A few old ones.” She thought about the storybook. About the glimpses of something that she’d caught in the space between the graveyard and the moment she’d arrived here. Aoi continued- “I saw a dream about a tree, recently. A tree I’d never seen before, out in the forest, somewhere.”

Genome’s gaze flit down to the storybook resting beside Aoi on the bed. His eyes narrowed, and Aoi knew that she was onto something. She jumped to the immediate conclusion- that the tree was real, and so was the storybook- and it likely had something to do with Spectre. Aoi resisted the urge to grin- it was a small victory, but it was still something.

Genome looked down at her, and she must not have done as good a job of hiding her emotions as she’d thought she’d done, because he immediately tried to change the topic. “Well. Dreams are just dreams, even for Zaizens. Your family’s never been as powerful as they think they’ve been.”

Aoi ignored that comment, mostly because she’d been raised in court- she could sense when a comment was made just as a diversion, stirring up trouble to shy away from the issue at hand. She tilted her head and asked, innocent as she could, “You don’t want to hear the details? Or the rest?”

Genome scoffed. It sounded less sincere than it had the first time. “Dreams are dreams, Princess. Don’t go throwing weight into things you don’t understand.”

“Things that you won’t let me understand?” Aoi said, but Genome ignored it.

“Last question. How much of your instinct do you have left over from when you were ‘Blue Angel’?” Genome’s voice curled on the last words- on the name of the traitorous angel. Aoi imagined that they hadn’t gotten along well. That was another thing she could poke at- her dream had implied she’d fight against Spectre in the war game, but the second war game had been three hundred years ago- if she could pry any information out of that, then...

“Blue Angel was the protector of my ancestors. The original protector summoned by the First King. If you’re implying that I’ve suddenly become an angel, then I think you’ve found yourself a bit confused.”

Genome shook his head and glowered down at her. For the first time, Aoi was aware of just how much he towered over her with their positions like this- but before he hadn’t an aura of danger about him. “Here, Princess. Here’s one of the answers you came here looking for. I’m not telling you that you _are_ Blue Angel. I’m telling you that you _were_. And that a certain someone would love to turn you into her again.”

Aoi’s vision started to spin, and her words wouldn’t come to her mind- flitting too fast and out of reach, skirting around the edges of her consciousness. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t-

“Did you drug me?” Aoi said, her words feeling heavy in her mouth as her tongue refused to move the way she wanted it to. She stood from the bed, but her legs immediately folded under her, and she swayed back onto the bed- able to hold herself sitting upright, but not for very long. It was already difficult to feel her numbing arms.

Genome shrugged, wings flourishing the motion. His yellow eye glowed like a spotlight in her dimming vision. “Just a little. Not enough that you won’t wake up. You’ll just sleep for a while, because I don’t feel like playing babysitter to more brats than I already do.”

Aoi tried to protest, but her grip on the world was fading fast. Genome flicked out his wings, and Aoi collapsed back onto the bed entirely. She vaguely sensed he was saying something else, but nothing in her mind registered as words. Her last thought before the darkness took her was, pointed in a voice not her own- _Liar_.


	17. XVI [Misplaced Histories]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s... sorry the episode tonight was so good that i completely forgot I had to post this today (lol)

Yusaku had vanished. One moment he was there, then the next he had disappeared entirely, torn away by the strange magic that had rose up to consume the atmosphere around them all. Shoichi had called out, had yelled from the shadows against the energy that had kept him from running any closer, but it had all done nothing. Even extending his power towards the source of the distorted magic hadn’t quelled it, hadn’t stopped it from dragging away Yusaku and Go Onizuka to somewhere unknown.

Shoichi didn’t swear, but it was a very close thing as he stepped out into the now empty street from his cover in the alleyway. When Yusaku had pushed out into the path, warning Shoichi to keep cover in case something went wrong, neither of them had anticipated things going quite _this_ afoul of their goal. It was becoming somewhat of a running theme, he thought wryly beneath his worry.

Reaching out on blind instinct, he did the only thing he could think to do- pulled at the familiar, lingering shards of Yusaku’s magic the way the magic he’d honed as a gravekeeper would pull a soul back from the dead. He had no candles, but so too did Yusaku have no soul- it would have to suffice. He reached out and seized it quickly, felt it latch on like a proper connection- and then the magic snapped and blew him onto his back. He hit hard against the ground, though not, he thought, hard enough to shatter the stones or his bones. His hand went immediately to the healing wound on his gut, patting it through the fabric of his shirt and the bandages, but they didn’t seem to be wet, which was a small blessing. The last thing he needed was to re-injure himself just when he’d gotten to a state of being of use. Still, none of that meant the impact had been _pleasant_.

Shoichi groaned, then almost lost his wits to the sudden sound of someone calling out to him. He started, and it definitely pulled at some sort of bruise, or wound, or who knew what- he’d worry about it later.

“Are you all right?” the voice was unfamiliar; soft-spoken but obviously concerned. Shoichi picked himself up from the ground, leaning back on his hands to see the new arrival. She was a small woman, not petite but hardly a fighter. She looked tired- it was the first thing Shoichi saw, after the worry in her eyes.

“Fine, fine,” Shoichi said, “You don’t have to worry about me. I just tripped. Might’ve smacked my head a little hard, but I’ll be fine. I’ve got a thick skull.”

The woman’s hands hovered over the bag slung around her shoulder, and she took a few quick steps closer, watching Shoichi carefully. Shoichi lifted a hand to tap at his head, grinning up at the woman in the hopes she would leave quickly- every moment he wasted on her was a moment that Yusaku was left alone against whatever had stolen him away. The woman crouched down beside him, taking a single knee. “May I..?”

“Go ahead,” he said, and she ran a tentative hand over the back of his head. He hoped she hadn’t seen any of the things that precluded him hitting the ground- that would be hard to explain, even if she did seem to have as little magic as he could feel in her- that was to say, almost none. After a few brief moments she sighed, and pulled back.

“You do seem all right. But please be careful. There’s so many sick and injured, these days. I’m afraid I and all the other doctors are run very thin. If you did hurt yourself, there’d be difficulty finding someone who could help you.” Her words were chiding, but resigned- like she was used to talking down to younger brothers or sons, and had defaulted back to that.

“Thanks,” Shoichi said, and accepted her proffered hand to help him back to his feet, “I’ll keep it in mind. Guess I was being kind of careless, not picking myself up from the middle of the road.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “You never know when a carriage is going to come rattling down the street.” A pause, her hand slipping through his as they both let go, then- “That ring…”

Shoichi stared down at the gold ring around his pinky finger- it had been too slim to fit anywhere else. It wasn’t his usual choice of jewelry by far, but he’d deemed it necessary to wear as his and Yusaku’s plans drew closer to completion. The woman blinked, then shook her head slightly. “Forgive me. It’s just beautiful. I forget, sometimes, that they still make charms so simple.”

Shoichi laughed. “I’m not the type for the fancy elaborate stuff. Simple charms with simple magic work fine for me.”

“A man after my own heart. But please excuse me. I’ve stayed too long. I was on my way to a call,” she said, then dug quick through her satchel for a small vial of orange liquid. She handed it off to Shoichi, who accepted it, a bit hesitant at taking strange medicine from a strange woman in the middle of the night.

“Well,” said the woman, “if you or anyone you know is ever feeling unwell, have them take a few drops of this. It’s highly concentrated, but it should ease the symptoms of whatever this plague is. It’s all I can do, but… at least it’s something, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Shoichi said, turning it between his fingers and watching as it almost glowed in the darkness.

“It’s the least I can do in these trying times,” said the woman, “the only thing, really. Then. Have a good evening, sir.”

She scurried off without so much as another word, taking brisk steps up the street and turning fast down the first cross street as Shoichi waved her off. He imagined that she likely broke into a run the moment she was out of eyesight. _A strange woman_ , he thought as he pocketed the medicine. _Someone to keep an eye on._

Shoichi had lost a bit of time due to that unexpected meeting. It had been more than suspicious, but for now his first priority was returning Yusaku from wherever he’d vanished to. Once the strange woman was gone, he returned to his place standing in the middle of the street, close as he could estimate to where Yusaku had been standing.

Simply reaching out for Yusaku’s magic had done no good. He’d been able to take hold of it before, but simply pulling had gotten him nothing but an ache in his back and a potion from a stranger he wasn’t sure he could trust. Shoichi curled his hands into fists, shaking tight in anger. This was what he hated most of all- the helplessness. He’d had enough of it, all those years chasing down the faintest scrap of information on the angels, or of Jin.

He’d crossed the continent. He’d brought the Kusanagi family magic to its pinnacle. He’d brought the greatest of darknesses up into the light, and he’d do it again.

Shoichi focused, reached for something deep inside himself, the core of the magic born of bone and soul, and commanded it to do as he pleased.

* * *

There was a collision- Yusaku felt as if he was seeing a dream, but it must have been a memory, auditory and spoken in voices that were distorted and blurred so that he couldn’t make them out, even if he tried. But somehow, instinctively, he could understand their words.

_Tell me a story. About what? About the gods. They’re not gods, of course. The Ignises were something- something old and powerful and very, very dangerous to the touch, but they were not gods. But they pretended to be, and the people almost thought them that. Some of them still do, though the angels and the demons know better. Each of them was quite different in personality and purpose. Though in hell they created their own paradise, they were not alone, and they lived their days in peace, creating their ideal worlds._

_What Ignis do you want to hear the story of? The warmonger of red? The plaguebringer of orange? The survivalist of yellow? The toiling green? Or perhaps the two successors? The flighty blue? Or the mysterious purple? You already know the answer. Tell me about the two sets of twins._

And just as soon as the jumbled voices pulled themselves apart and away Yusaku regained his senses. He was back in the real world, back on the street he had been taken from. Little time seemed to have passed- it was still night, and the world hadn’t seemed to have woken. Yusaku picked himself to his feet, checking quick over his limbs- the way he felt now it seemed as if something in him should have broken, but when he did his final check everything was as it should be- not so much as a chip off his shoulder.

Kusanagi was there in an instant, looking over Yusaku, too. “Yusaku! You’re not hurt? What happened?”

Yusaku nodded, then glanced around the street. It was still empty, but he could faintly see the flutter of movement behind closed curtains and candles making shadows in windows where there were none before. Seems that the world was ready to wake after all. However he’d returned, it must have caused a sound. “Not hurt. Let’s go somewhere else and I’ll explain.” He paused, then- “Where’s Onizuka?”

“I don’t know,” Kusanagi said with a shrug, “he didn’t come back with you. Nothing happened to him while-”

Yusaku shook his head, then started fast towards an alley as something clattered towards them from down the street. Distantly he heard the bark of hounds awoken from slumber at the carriage. At this time of night, it certainly meant nothing good was coming their way. Kusanagi followed fast behind him. They ducked through the alleys a while, back towards their temporary camp of Ghost Girl’s apartment. The woman herself hadn’t been around in a few days, but neither of them thought it time to worry yet. The chances she’d made off entirely with the Ignis were low, not when the ‘Ghost Girls’ of centuries past had ties to Sol and its rulers. She could be a rogue as the stories implied, but it seemed her loyalties were clear. If they weren’t, she would have asked any other favor of them.

The two of them crept into Ghost Girl’s hideout, letting themselves in the balcony door on the second floor to avoid attracting attention- not that the street was particularly busy, this time of night. Though it seemed the woman had neighbors, Yusaku had seen nor heard no sign of them over the past three days- the mark of a well-protected hideaway. Thick walls in a reclusive neighborhood- everything they needed. They secluded themselves away into the bedroom Ghost Girl had first provided them, and only then did Kusanagi speak again.

“Yusaku, where were you?”

Yusaku let out a long breath at Kusanagi’s question, though he didn’t need the air- but it seemed appropriate for the situation. “I don’t know. But I think it was hell.”

“Hell!?” Yusaku could feel the force of Kusanagi’s worry, but he waved it off quickly- he was fine. What worried him was the possibility that his escape had come with a price- unintentional, but paid all the same.

He said, “We need to find Go Onizuka. I think he may still be trapped.”

Kusanagi made a mumbled statement under his breath that Yusaku thought might have been a swear- uncharacteristic, but definitely deserved, in this situation. Yusaku continued- “However you brought me back-”

Kusanagi shook his head. “I didn’t. I tried, but… Hell’s beyond me, Yusaku. If someone brought you back, it wasn’t me.”

For a moment it seemed as if Kusanagi was going to speak further, as if he had someone in mind- but he didn’t say anything further. That was strange on him, but Yusaku didn’t have time to comment any further- because suddenly, they were no longer alone.

The guardian trilled in alarm at the very sight of Yusaku, wings aflutter and all the scraps of magic it seemed to possess sparking in a dangerous aura around its body- dangerous moreso to itself, than Yusaku. He held up his hands, cautiously, and the guardian’s alarmed twittering stopped. Though it was clearly still wary, the magic around it curled back inside its body, filling in the hollows of its ribs that had begun to show as the magic stretched thin.

The guardian floated near the center of the room, and she seemed quite unsure of herself, now that her initial defensiveness had worn off. Yusaku glanced quickly around the room, wondering just where she’d come from, but could find no hint.

“Why are you here?” he asked, but the guardian had no words to use with which to reply. Instead she fluttered over to the bedroom wall, tapping small fists against the peeling wallpaper. Her fists made very little sound against the wall. Kusanagi followed her flight and rapped his own knuckles against the wall- and the resounding sound was hollow, despite the appearance of brick. The guardian trilled again, this time sounding urgently pleased.

“Is the Princess… on the other side of this wall?” he ventured, and the fae nodded frantically. Yusaku stood from the bed, suddenly tense again. Kusanagi’s posture had gone tense to match- if the Princess was there, and if her guardians couldn’t reach her- so desperate that they were reaching out to the ones she surely thought her enemies, it could mean only one thing.

“Kusanagi. Stand back. I’ll break the wall.”

* * *

Go blinked awake to a strange, shifting sensation in his gut- similar to unease, but much more visceral- as if something in his body had shifted out of place. He pushed himself up, sitting from where he was sprawled out against the ground to try and test it- and felt more grounded, at least. However, the feeling didn’t last long- for he seemed to be sitting on nothing

So he was still trapped in that strange, broken space, then. He looked around for Yusaku, but the Sentinel was gone, nowhere in sight- Go all but leapt to his feet at the thought he might have been deceived.

“Relax,” called a voice, and Go glanced from side to side, trying to find it amongst the swirling darkness tinged with streaks of iridescent red. But it was from before him that the world seemed to shift, cutting apart in a smooth line in a flash of magic so strong even Go could sense the minutia of it- two different powers, blended together as to be one. From that line in reality stepped an unfamiliar figure- a woman, small and dark and looking utterly at home in the darkness. She spoke again, and Go recognized her voice- “I’ll answer any questions you might have. But first, relax. This is still another world, but the Sentinel didn’t betray you.”

“You were watching?” Go asked, unsure if he was really able to trust Ghost Girl or not. Unsure if this even _was_ Ghost Girl. Her exploits were fabled, but never had she claimed to have visited hell- nor had she given any indication she was planning on going when they’d met briefly at the docks.

“I was,” she said, “but I have one question for you, first. Do you remember why you’re still here? The flashback should have taken you back to your world. I didn’t sense you stray out of its influence. So why?”

Go shook his head, trying to remember. He recalled returning to Yusaku’s side, and felt keenly the sensation of something in the air snapping, as if the world was attempting to rush back to them- and then a pull a different direction, a different sort of magical energy. He relayed as much to Ghost Girl.

“But you don’t know what…” she said, crossing her arms in contemplation. “And I didn’t sense anything because of the hellhounds. Ai, what about you?”

“Nope, nothing,” chirped the silver gauntlet on her wrist- or rather, the gem inside. Go remembered suddenly the Ignis’ onslaught from the temple, the rush of magic, the chaos as the strange figure had appeared on top of the altar-

“Is that the _Ignis?_ ” Go asked.

Ghost Girl sighed. “It’s a bit of a long story, but yes. I haven’t stolen it, mind you. Not intentionally, at least. I promise I’ll explain it all, okay? But let me have my mysteries a moment. I just want to make sure. You’d never sensed that magic, before?”

Go thought, but he felt in his gut the truth- whatever that magic had been, it had been distinct from the aura of hell that surrounded them, and it hadn’t been one he’d sensed in Den City before. Not that the certainty of that meant much, these days, when all the trouble seemed to be foreign- angel or Sentinel or something altogether. “Never.”

But even as he said the words- _hadn’t it felt like something?_ he thought. Something warm, something pulsing with flickering life, invisible but no less potent. He’d felt it only once before, as a child- and even then, perhaps it hadn’t been the same.

But before he could think on it any longer, Ghost Girl sighed. It was light and airy, but he couldn’t help but feel there was some strange weight beneath it. What it was, he had no guess. He could only ask- “Are you going to give me answers? Why am I in hell, and how do we get back? And why do you have the Ignis, when it should have been with the Sentinel?”

“Come with me,” Ghost Girl said, then began to tread a path through the void with utter confidence. Go followed her, unwilling to hesitate, no matter how uneasy the thought of stepping out into the nothingness was. “I’ll explain everything to you. And hopefully, someone out there is going to pull you out soon. And if they don’t, well… You’ll be keeping me company, a while.”

“And me,” the Ignis chimed in, with a cheerfulness that didn’t seem to befit a god trapped in hell. But before he could voice as much, Ghost Girl began her story.

“Now, this is a story of a very long time ago. A millennia ago, to be more or less precise. It’s almost as old as my family line, you know, and that’s saying something,” Ghost Girl laughed, leaping down across a patch of void to a few stones that looked crumbling but solid below. Go gladly followed, feeling strange when the expected rush of air never came.

“And I should mention,” Ghost Girl said as he landed, heavy on his feet, “If you hear this story, you’ll be in danger. Nothing can prevent that. But you’ve already decided to get involved, haven’t you?”

Go nodded. “I’m going to protect Den City from the angels. It’s my duty.”

“Is it duty? Or is that just what you want to do?” Ghost Girl huffed, but hardly allowed him time to answer before she started off down the winding cobblestone road that seemed to be rising from the void to meet them.

 _“I don’t want to hear it_ ,” said the Ignis, whining, but Ghost Girl ignored him entirely.

“This is the story. Once upon a time, there was a very influential witch. They weren’t King of Vrains, mind you, but they were quite close. But they and the King had a bit of a falling out, and so that witch decided to strike out outside of Vrains, to make their fortune and create a Kingdom there,” Ema chuckled, then added, “Though that’s a very nice way to put it. The truth is, they- the witch and the coven, that is- were about to be banished anyway. Some of them even executed. So I suppose you could say it was their only option to run and establish their own Kingdom.”

“You’re talking about Sol,” Go said, forging forwards on the path despite the way stones began to crumble from the edges. Ghost Girl had no fear, so neither should he. He didn’t know why Ghost Girl would tell him such a story- everyone in Den City knew the story of Sol and its founder King- and Blue Angel, who’d fought Hanoi despite her heavenly origins.

Ghost Girl hummed affirmation. “But this is the story of what happened before any of that. Everyone might know the story of the First King and Hanoi, but how many know the story of what happened before…?”

 _If any of them knew,_ Go thought, _they were probably silenced by the angels._ Which left the question of why Ghost Girl was still standing unharmed. Go glanced around. They were in hell. He wasn’t sure if he could say _unharmed_.

“I don’t,” the Ignis chimed in obligingly, and Ema briefly smiled before she continued.

“The truth is, the First King made a few terrible decisions. The First King had power and wealth, but very little to show for it. They were hunted down ruthlessly by the soldiers from Vrains, and it seemed that even their coven would desert them.” _But they didn’t, obviously_ , Go thought. The stories accounted for that.

“So the First King decided to perform a feat of magic that no human would again be able to repeat. They decided to touch another world, and bring back a piece of it. Something beyond bringing the dead back to life… The dead may still wander among us, waiting for reincarnation, but the First King wanted to do something else entirely.” Ghost Girl’s words carried a strange tone to them- they’d been rehearsed dozens of times before, an oral history doubtless passed down for generations. But it was almost as if she was laughing at the First King, not quite irreverent but certainly… Go didn’t have the word for it. More bitter than nostalgia, more positive than melancholy.

“So he struck down Blue Angel, who’d been looking for a way to escape,” Go said.

Ghost Girl hummed, and Go got the sense that was her way of avoiding outright denial. He’d known her only by her reputation- the treasure hunter, the distant, the selfish woman motivated more by money than her family loyalty to Sol, but for the first time he got the sense of just how far her family line ran.

 _She might know the secrets of the angels_ , he thought suddenly, thinking of Aoi and her quest to learn more about her magic. And Go thought, abruptly, that it didn’t make sense. If Ghost Girl was loyal to Sol, and the Zaizens, then why-

Ghost Girl interrupted his train of thought with her reply. “That is how the story goes, isn’t it? But it never goes about telling you how the First King found Blue Angel in the first place.”

“Hey,” said the Ignis, “don’t say ‘a _woman’s gotta have her secrets’_ and not tell us!”

Ghost Girl laughed. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t going to tell you. But you should already know this part, Ai.”

The Ignis made a comical, quizzical noise, and Go couldn’t imagine it wasn’t just playing it up. Go glanced down at Ghost Girl’s gauntlet, and wondered how in the world the creature he’d seen in the Temple was supposed to be the same being. Ema continued, “The First King wasn’t able to do it, not without significant physical and mental harm. So the First King found allies- ones with practical knowledge, not just finances, like in the coven members. Brilliant foreigners, from the land that preceded Sol.”

“Impossible,” Go said, but Ghost Girl only tilted her head to smile up at him, expression wistful, as if she wished she could change what she was about to say.

“But it’s not so impossible when it’s history, Mister Onizuka. Then it’s just a fact forgotten by time, erased when it wouldn’t fit nicely into the narrative the winners decided to create. When the First King was faced with the consequences of failure, the First King decided to collaborate with the only ones who seemed like they could help- Hanoi.”


	18. XVII [Strange Forces]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... completely overdid it on the first day of my trip yesterday and passed out once I got back to my hostel so two chapters today to get back on track!!

There were hundreds of things Shima Naoki knew about life in Den City. There were dozens of them that had been tossed out over the past three days, since the angels had knocked him out cold for a moment in the arena that night- but there was one thing that Shima Naoki knew with perfect clarity, and that was the fact that he was hungry.

Food was scarce, prices were up, and the rats were everywhere. Naoki hurried along the streets whenever he saw their beady eyes peering out of an alley or a gutter, sure that they were the source of the plague running through the city faster than a common cold. And that was another thing! That plague had what seemed like half the city bedridden, and Naoki thanked his luck that he wasn’t one of them. No doctor knew what to do about it save throwing medicine at it, and Naoki hated to think what would happen if the King didn’t declare a War Game soon.

He shook his head. But he shouldn’t have had to worry. He was Lonely Brave, the greatest upcoming challenger that Den City had seen in centuries- and he was going to go and protect his city, just like Go Onizuka.

Naoki took a sharp left and wandered towards the city center, towards the dark slope of the arena roof that stood imposing in the middle of the plaza. It seemed strange to be back, since his last match- and all matches going forwards- had been cancelled. Naoki sighed. Three days since the angels had descended, going on four- or perhaps it was already the fourth day. Naoki had lost track of time wandering the streets, looking for any signs of- he froze at sudden noise from down the cross street. It sounded like a clatter, the sound of footsteps echoing down an empty alley, moving up towards him at haste. Naoki braced himself for a fight, but then came the voice- “Keep it up, Pigeon! There’s got to be a scoop around here somewhere!”

Naoki let out a long breath of relief. He’d been ready to fight an angel, but the prospect had sounded a bit more manageable than the instinctive bolt of fear that’d raced up his spine and all but frozen him in place suggested to him in the moment. Two ragtag reporters out far past when anyone should be, he could handle. “Halt, citizens!”

Frog and Pigeon came into view just as Naoki boomed out the command- they nearly leaped out of their skin before skidding to a halt at the sight of Naoki, dimly lit in his competition armor. One of them shrieked.

Naoki held out his hands in a placating gesture, hoping that no one living above the shops in the outer ring had woken. Frog clutched at his chest dramatically- or not so dramatically, given the way it was heaving, then forced out- “Oh, it’s just… Just… Who’re you again?”

Naoki attempted not to feel offended, and mostly failed. “Lonely Brave! The challenger! From the arena! You two were there that night!”

“Oh, right!” said Pigeon, nodding fervently, “The one who ran away when Revolver shot!”

Naoki groaned- that hadn’t been the impression he’d wanted to leave, but at least that little detail hadn’t made it into the papers, at least. He still had a chance to make it all right, out here.

“Anyway! You two should go home. I’m out protecting the streets, but citizens like you should-”

“Hey, hey,” Frog interrupted, “we’ve got scoops to search for! The public is relying on us!”

“But walking around in the middle of the night isn’t going to bring you a scoop-”

Naoki wasn’t able to finish his sentence- all he could do was make a noise of disbelief and lift his finger to point over Frog and Pidgeon’s shoulders, unable to explain what exactly he was seeing. Frog and Pigeon whipped around, falling into the same stupor as Naoki. For behind them was the arena, standing strange and seemingly opposed to the world around it. Its rafters were broken and suspended in midair- every splinter hovering careful in place. The benches had exploded outwards from the bricks of the arena floor, floating outwards in a parody of the arena itself. The drums hovered upside-down above the ring; the bricks of the walls floated lazily around Naoki himself, though he hadn’t realized the moment they’d arrived there. He must have been blinking, Naoki thought in a stupor.

Maybe, he thought, trying to reach for words and utterly failing, he was in a dream right now. Maybe the angels had never descended, maybe the plagues had never settled, and maybe Naoki had just gotten punched _really hard_ by Go Onizuka in the ring, and they were carrying him out in a stretcher right now. Which wouldn’t have been a very good impression to make in the biggest match of his challenger career, but it beat running from an angel, probably.

“Wha-”

And then it all burst, collapsing in a burst of flame and a deafening force. Naoki had just enough time to throw himself over Frog and Pigeon before the dust and the fire and the debris were atop them, rushing over them like a wave from the ocean- fast and all consuming. The shockwave knocked them all to the ground, and time seemed to slow as Naoki found a place to put his limbs that still managed to cover most of the unconscious reporters without falling straight on top of them before he too was slammed to the ground with the force of the magic.

He only dared lift his head once, just a quick glimpse upwards before the force of the flames forced his head back down- but in the very center of it all, he swore he saw someone. A figure, perhaps, a creature- just a white-caped silhouette, unaffected by the destruction around it. Naoki, in that moment, swore it was a devil.

But the moment he glimpsed it through watering eyes, something slammed into his helmet with a deafening roar of metal in his ears, and it all went to darkness and the comforting heat of the embers falling atop them.

* * *

In the night, Zaizen Aoi saw a dream. Or rather: Zaizen Aoi saw a dozen dreams, more than she ever could hope to remember. Most of them were insignificant: flashes of her life, moments suspended without reason before her eyelids before flicking onwards to the next, equally as fanciful and equally as quickly forgotten. But Aoi also saw a _dream_ , one that she remembered with perfect clarity.

Aoi stood in the military graveyard, standing in the soft shade of the wisteria tree. It was in bloom, which would make the season late spring, and the smell of the blossoms permeated the air, thick but pleasant in her senses. She was different- her hair was longer, brushing her shoulders. Her clothes were dirty, streaked with dirt from the flowerbeds.  A boy stood beside her, not quite relaxed enough to lean back against the tree- he seemed excited, almost, a certain kind of tension in his spine and shoulders and gaze.

“What’s beyond the swamp?” the boy asked, peering out into the fog, as if he’d be able to see through the trees if he tried hard enough.

Aoi hummed. “Vrains. That’s the country of the witches, you know. Oh! And the tomb of the First King! That’s in Vrains, too. Well, sort of. It’s between the two countries.”

The boy’s expression curled into a frown. He said, reciting his words careful and precise- “The First King defeated the angels. But the angels were still very strong. The Blue Angel died trying to defend her new home. The Angels stole the Ignis that was wager, but the First King used the remaining two to protect the new Kingdom of Sol from harm. When the angels came to challenge again, the Queen struck them down and reclaimed the stolen Ignis for herself. She was beautiful and brave, and all who saw her called her the second coming of the Blue Angel… But then she burned herself out, determined to hold onto the power that no human could.”

Aoi blinked. He told the story very matter of fact, no judgement in the words, hardly any emphasis- but Aoi thought that just made it more terrifying. Stories about things that hadn’t happened yet always were. “Who told you that story?”

The boy made a soft noise of frustration. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember the person who told you your most important things?” Aoi couldn’t imagine that. She had her mother, a kind woman who told her everything. Stories, sometimes, and lovely tales of places far away. Stories of magic and home and many of the things Aoi didn’t have.

The boy shook his head harshly, as if he wanted to shake out something from it entirely- or as if he could dislodge something in his mind, and then his memories would fall out. “My memory is wrong. I should be able to remember things perfectly. I used to. I know I did. I just… I can’t remember. That’s why we’re here, remember? The person here should know.”

Aoi nodded. That’s why she’d ignored her mother and come out to the graveyard, despite the warnings. That, and because she’d had a dream- _“I want to save you.”_

A gasp, an intake of flower-scented air. “He’s here,” whispered the boy, peering around the tree in excitement. Aoi frowned, but glanced around the tree, too, looking around the other side of its wide trunk. And true to his word, there he was, emerging from the fog- a wave of acid preceded him, and Aoi thought she’d choke on the conflicting scents.

But it was true, Aoi thought, holding her breath and watching paralyzed as he continued, unaware of their presence. The scary stories the adults tried to tell them, to scare them into behaving with- they all were true. There was a Sentinel in the graveyard… And it was turning to look at them.

For the first time, Aoi got a glimpse at the face of the boy who’d haunted the graveyard so long as anyone could remember. Green eyes. Aoi gasped, and the dream shattered to pieces.

* * *

If they wanted to make their attack, they’d have very little time to do so. The dawn was going to break sooner rather than later. Though Ghost Girl’s room had no clocks nor windows, Shoichi knew by the way the stars had been fading in the sky when they’d returned that time was short. Yusaku knew it too, and he turned towards the wall separating them and what they could only presume to be the angels.

“What should we do? Break through the wall?” Yusaku asked, clearly ready to ram his shoulder at it and do just that. Shoichi shook his head and held him back. Yusaku paused, though he still seemed ready to leap at the wall if necessary.

“Not a good idea. We can’t fight all of them at once,” Shoichi said. In the pause of his breath, he knew they were both thinking of their encounter with Revolver- and what a disaster that had been. They’d rushed into danger. He’d been reckless. He couldn’t put their lives on the line like that again. “I’ll go scouting.”

“What?” Yusaku looked up at him in surprise. He seemed ready to protest- to insist on going himself.

Shoichi shook his head and continued before Yusaku really could protest- “They _know_ you, Yusaku. They might not know me.”

“At least one of them does,” Yusaku pointed out. He was not unkind when he continued- “And they’d be able to kill you. A human’s odds aren’t good against an angel.”

“They might know how to kill you, too,” Shoichi pointed out, slightly more grave. Yusaku frowned.

“That’s only a possibility. They might not be able to,” Yusaku said, the undercurrent of his words a clear- _I’m stronger than they’ll give me credit for._

“It’s still a risk, Yusaku,” Shoichi said, “so let me take this one. There’s a chance I can get in and out without starting a fight. Remember. We can always use the war game to our advantage.”

Yusaku looked as if to protest- to say that he’d much rather stop them now- but he never quite voiced it. Instead, he said- “Do you really think you can do it?”

“I’m confident,” Shoichi replied, “that this way I can talk some information about Jin out of them. If things go right to a fight, then we might not learn anything.”

Yusaku considered that a moment, then nodded. He wouldn’t jeopardize one of Shoichi’s few chances to get closer to saving Jin- not even for the sake of his own revenge. The thought just made Shoichi’s anger towards the angels burn that much stronger- someone as good-hearted as Yusaku hadn’t deserved to be made an outcast. To become a gravekeeper had been his choice, but Yusaku… Shoichi forced himself to shove that emotion down, to show not a shred of it- not in front of Yusaku, and not in front of the angels.

Shoichi held out his palm, and the guardian fluttered to rest atop it. He wasn’t sure, but her chirp sounded quite grateful.

He said to Yusaku- “When you sense my magic, that’s the sign to come in and fight.”

Yusaku almost laughed, but held himself back at the last second- Shoichi could tell from the looks Yusaku shot him afterwards, dryly amused- “So it’s going to be a fight anyway?”

“It might be. Just maybe,” Shoichi said in reply, then started towards the door. Yusaku huffed, but followed him out. He stayed at a good distance as they walked down the stairs, as Shoichi slipped out the front door and headed to the apartment next door.

Shoichi tamped down his instinctive nerves as he knocked on the door with his free hand. There was a brief shuffling he could hear from the other side, and then the door swung open, fast and irritable as the man who opened it.

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” said the man, and waved off Shoichi’s questioning look. “Doesn’t matter. What do you want? I hope you realize there are people trying to sleep in this house.”

Shoichi flashed the man an apologetic glance, which was received only with a scoff.

“Is this yours?” Shoichi asked, holding up the guardian resting on his palm. The man leaned over, squinting his eyes down at the guardian, who smiled pleasantly up at his scrutinizing gaze. Shoichi felt her trill a friendly _hello_ in the brush of wings against his hand.

“Nope,” said the man, “not mine. Sure she doesn’t belong to the woman next door?”

Shoichi hoped that didn’t answer the question of what had happened to Ghost Girl. By all accounts she was a rather calm woman- though the version of her that Shoichi met had been anything but. If she’d been being hunted by the angels, then Shoichi supposed that would answer some questions- especially if they’d gone after the Princess, too.

“No, it’s not hers. Would you mind letting her in, at least? She’s desperate to get inside. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but it seems urgent.” Shoichi put on his best plead- kind, but a bit forceful- like trying to sell charms to customers all the days he’d spent as a travelling merchant. Might as well make the best of what skills he had.

The man scowled, but crooked a finger at the guardian. “Fine. The guardian can do whatever she wants in here, so long as she doesn’t disturb anyone. People are trying to sleep in this house.”

The guardian fluttered off of Shoichi’s palm and flit about the house a moment, either confused or playing a part. Shoichi wondered if she might have understood human speech after all. The man attempted to shut the door on him, but Shoichi smoothly stepped over the threshold. “Mind if I step inside, at least? I want to make sure she finds her way back safely, too. She was pretty disoriented, when I found her.”

“And where was that?” The man glared at him.

Shoichi pointed over his shoulder, down the street at some inconsequential place. “Down over there, on the street. Just a few minutes ago.”

“You were walking alone at night? Not good times to be doing that,” said the man, eyes boring into Shoichi sharp, searching for any sign of a weakness, any sign of a lie. Shoichi shrugged haplessly, putting on an innocent face and thinking he wouldn’t give the man one.

“I know. But I was out looking for food. For my little brother. We ran into a doctor that gave us some medicine, but… Food is still a problem.”

The man clicked his tongue, then opened the door. He muttered low under his breath- “Kyoko’s going to get us all in trouble one of these days.”

Shoichi tried to hide the way his shoulders tensed as he passed, but wasn’t sure if he did a particularly good job of it or not. That proved it, then. The angels were here, and they were associated with exactly who he’d thought. The woman named Taki Kyoko, who had a grave in a military cemetary dating back to the days before the Zaizens had ever reigned over Sol. The man shut the door behind him, too-loud.

“How much do you know about Hanoi? The country. Not the angels,” said the man, and ushed Shoichi in towards the kitchen. He glanced up at the guardian, turning circles in the air with a distressed expression but remaining silent. Left with no choice but to go, Shoichi went. The man kept at his back until he was seated at the table, only then moving to the counter to start brewing tea.

Shoichi shrugged. “Not that much, I guess? They were big on alchemy and the sciences of the world. A lot of the leftover writing we have from them mentions heaven and hell and the like. The Kingdom collapsed when their King was killed by a traitor, and Sol took over in the power vacuum. The basic stuff. Not much is left after an entire millennia.”

The tea was done startlingly quickly; either it had already been brewed or there was strange magic at work, here. The man set the cup down before him, and Shoichi tried to regard it without wariness, though it seemed most likely that poison was in the cup. Still, he managed a quick word of thanks before the man spoke again. With a snort, actually- “Yeah, well, when the castle burns to the ground and takes the city with it, that’s what you get.”

Shoichi began to play a dangerous game with a nonchalant tone. “The angels destroying most information that shows up doesn’t help matters either.”

“Nope,” said the man, and sipped a cup of tea for himself- a clear move to get Shoichi to trust him to drink it himself. He wouldn't fall for it- except the man narrowed his eyes and said- “Well, come on then. The only thing I drug is curry, and that’s because Aso’s a terrible cook.”

“Sorry. Waiting for it to cool of a little.” Shoichi had no choice- he took a sip. It didn’t taste like poison, at least- just typical green tea. The expensive kind, at that, bitter without being overwhelming. Brewed perfectly.

“Yeah, sure, fine. But it’s still a shame. Society could’ve gone so far if they’d just used what Hanoi had, back then.”

Shoichi glanced up. Surely an angel wouldn’t give themselves up so easily. “You collect forbidden works?”

“You could say that. I’ve always had an interest in them. You’re the same, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around on the road. People in this city might not know you, but you’ve got a reputation for sticking your nose in places you don’t belong and ending up with texts no merchant’s supposed to have. You’re always looking for something or other that the angels would kill you for,” said the man, and took another sip of his tea before setting it down on the counter beside him.

Shoichi didn’t touch his. No matter how good it was, he wasn't risking any more potential poison. “I didn’t think I had a reputation.”

The man snorted again, then moved out of sight, back towards the front door. Shoichi narrowed his eyes and stood, following as the man turned course abruptly towards the stairs. He took one step upwards- and then vanished in a burst of magic that reappeared just a second later, this time behind him. Shoichi turned slowly, startled- and was even more startled by what he saw there. No longer was there a man standing behind him, but an angel with eye glowing yellow and wings blocking his escape. Shoichi stepped back out of instinct, and the angel stepped forwards.

“How many times,” Genome drawled, “are we going to have to deal with you?”

“As many times as it takes until Jin is back,” Shoichi said, and pulled the resting spirits up. They did little, and lasted only a moment- but they were a smokescreen enough to send Genome stepping backwards, wings coming up to shield his face at the onslaught of them.

Shoichi turned his back and ran, leaping up the steps where the guardian was heading. He didn’t dare glance behind him. But he heard the front door burst open, a gust of wind at his back that sent furniture clattering to the ground in a cacophony of shattering glass and heavy thuds.

The apartment had been much the same as Ghost Girl’s, but much more spacious- though the upper floor, was just as tiny, just two doors down a cramped hallway. The guardian stopped in front of the first door, and for a split second Shoichi’s gaze slid down the hallway, sensing something strange amidst the uneasy spirits he’d thrown from their slumber- but the guardian trilled, and Shoichi threw open the door, bracing himself for some sort of trap. None came- but inside there was as flutter of motion as the Princess stood the moment Shoichi stepped through the doorway.

“Who are you?” accused the Princess, her magic leaping and flaring about her, resonating with the charms across her body in a way that crossed the distance between them easily as a spoken warning.

Shoichi lifted his hands in a show of surrender- he couldn’t blame her, after all, for being disoriented after she’d presumably been kidnapped. Her fae flit out from behind him, trilling something he didn’t understand, and the Princess’ stature relaxed, slightly, though magic still rolled off her in waves.

“Weren’t you with the Sentinel? That means you’re in possession of the Ignis?” Less questions than statements. Shoichi answered them as fast as he could. Something in the air was changing, terrible and suffocating- and it very well was the presence of the angels.

“No. We only had a dummy. Whatever the angels told you, it was a lie. They aren’t on our side, Your Highness.”

“I know that,” the Princess said, then shook her head, alarm evident for a moment in her eyes with the way magic began to swell dangerous throughout the house. “I presume you’re here for me? Then, if I go with you, will you answer my questions?”

“Anything you want,” Shoichi said, if only just to get her out of the building that was shaking on its very foundations, the howl of the wind whipping through the lower floor of the house. The Princess nodded, doubtless sensing no time to spare, and together they stepped back into the hall, though the Princess hesitated at the door, reaching a tentative hand out to brush the air before stepping through.

The amount of magic that hit them the moment they did was immense- the familiar lash of Yusaku’s like a whirlwind, but the indomitable presence of Genome’s was overwhelming. The house shook again, and Shoichi shuffled the Princess down the stairs, the Princess taking them two at a time and racing out the door. Shoichi took them slightly slower, trying to find Yusaku- but given the hole that had been blown into one side of the wall, the way the wind howled like a wolf through the empty spaces of Ghost Girl’s apartment, Shoichi could guess what had happened.

He raced outside, and not a moment too soon. Behind him, the building collapsed. It was not a soft collapse, throwing up stone and brick and ash alike, a choking cloud that Shoichi had no choice but to hold his breath against, lifting a sleeve to his mouth and shutting his eyes tight. The Princess half-ducked behind him, sheltering herself from the onslaught.

The dust hadn’t so much as settled before Yusaku pulled himself from it, crossing the distance towards Shoichi and the Princess in a few quick strides. For a moment the debris fall down into place, resting in the flames- and then threw itself again into the air as a pale yellow magic burst from beneath the rubble, flicking outwards in the shape of wings. Genome stepped out from the rubble, hovering slightly above it as it settled around him a wide distance, falling away in a sphere marked from wingtip to wingtip. Shoichi threw a protective arm out before the Princess, and Yusaku leapt before them both, magic roiling wild and fierce as it had ever been.

“Go,” Yusaku said, without sparing them so much as a glance.

“Yusaku, I’m not leaving you here-”

“Just go! I’ll get our revenge here and now!” Yusaku yelled, and Shoichi’s gaze turned fast to the sky as the angels began their descent. He’d hardly had time to notice them before they were closing in, moving faster than anything natural possibly could. One, two, joining the one already on the ground, and then the one picking himself up from the rubble- then back to Yusaku- and Shoichi made a decision. He dropped the arm feebly protecting the Princess, then reached out to drag Yusaku back by the shoulder.

“Kusanagi-” Yusaku hissed in protest, but Shoichi wouldn’t let him continue. They didn’t have time for an argument, not as the angel spread his wings again and seemed to ready himself for some sort of attack.

“It’s not worth it,” Shoichi hissed back, “not if you end up dead.”

Yusaku’s eyes went wide- because surely he understood too. No human might have been able to kill a Sentinel, but what of the angels that had created him in the first place? It was too great a risk to face all of them at once.

They turned their backs and ran, the Princess following them close behind- but a red streak sped before them, bursting outwards to reveal an angel with wings spread wide, thin, spindly bones clumped together with red-tinged feathers. His eye flickered luminescent red, a color that sent an instinctive shudder of fear up Shoichi’s spine, even before the rush of magic hit them, burning though their chests.

The angel spoke with even words, though the strange pulsation of his magic gave them a strange cadance. “Playmaker. Stop. If you listen to our terms, you won’t-”

Yusaku wasted no time in summoning the wind, battering against the angel and tearing through his wings. “I won’t make any deals with you.”

“Not even for answers?” the angel asked, shouting his words above the wind, flames bursting towards them but driven back by a howling gust that forced him to give ground a step. Shoichi risked a glance over his shoulder- the other angels were almost upon them. He started reaching for any sort of magic, anything he could pull, even if it was just a soul without a body- and then something strange happened. Half the angels halted, blurs of color halted in place. They hovered a moment, and Shoichi wondered if it wasn’t Yusaku’s doing- but his wind wasn’t blowing that direction. All of his magic was concentrated on stopping the angel before them, and the Princess had yet to raise her hand, though her magic was thick in the air around her. And then the two of them were gone, leaving only the one before them and the one rising from the fallen building.

“Two of them are gone,” he hissed to Yusaku, and the Princess glanced over her shoulder, then clapped her hands, pulling a whip from her ring. It was a strange sort of magic, one reminiscent of Vrains and the old days- as expected, Shoichi supposed.

“Jin. If you return him, then I might listen to what you have to say,” Yusaku said, laying down the ultimatum.

“If you join us,” said the angel, “then it might be possible to return Jin.”

The air that thrummed with power went cold as the winter snow. Shoichi stepped forwards, despite his instincts telling him to stay back. “What do you mean?”

The angel faced them with integrity. “Exactly as I’ve said. If Playmaker joins us, then it may be possible to return Kusanagi Jin to you. To this plane, at the very least.”

“Then I-”

Shoichi grabbed Yusaku’s shoulder, pulling him back. He’d dropped his magic, he’d gone to step forward- and Shoichi wouldn’t have it. He hissed to Yusaku- “Listen to those terms. There wasn’t any guarantee. They could take you and keep Jin. You can’t agree to that.”

But how he wished Yusaku could.

“This foolishness will be the end of you,” the angel said to them, expression curling into unbridled frustration, “I can’t guarantee it because there is no guarantee. This isn’t as simple as the gravekeeping you’re so fond of! “

“He’s not dying for you,” Shoichi spat back- and he certainly wouldn’t force Yusaku to fight for a cause he didn’t believe in just to get Jin back. Yusaku didn’t deserve that kind of suffering.

Though he was about to respond, the angel faltered, ducking a head down into a raised hand as a wave of power threatened at them, racing at them faster than Shoichi or Yusaku could react- and it was the Princess that leapt before them, arms extended, bracelets glowing, a shield enveloping them in a quiet blue light that clashed against the red wave of energy but held steady. The whip in her hand pulsed with power, and the moment that the shockwave faded away, she leapt forth, Yusaku’s wind pushing at her back, arm pulled back and ready to strike. But the moment before she flicked her wrist and the whip made contact, Genome leapt in front of Faust, taking the Princess’ blow. The whip cracked across his body, striking out in sparks of blue and throwing Genome back, falling on top of Faust.

Genome tried to stand, clutching at the wound across his chest, dripping with something yellow bleeding out of him, then settled for resting on a knee. Sparks of blue still clung to him, as if they were eating away at his body- and then the two angels were gone, vanished in a scowl and a blink of an eye.

Shoichi watched the space where they had been, and then to the Princess. _So that’s the power of a Zaizen at full strength..._

Still. He couldn’t shake the thought that it had all been too easy- a single strike shouldn’t have felled an angel. Every record of the previous two war games had indicated as much- but the Zaizens weren’t normal witches. The Princess proved that as her whip curled itself back into a ring on her finger and she turned to them, a spark in her eyes.

“I know a place we can find a weapon,” said the Princess, “a place where something that can kill even an angel is hidden. Will you follow me?”

Shoichi exchanged a glance with Yusaku- then they nodded in unison at the Princess, who looked at them grave but pleased. “Good. Then let’s go.”


	19. XVIII [Hunters]

The sun rose along the eastern horizon, pulling itself up slowly from the distant mountains closer towards the inland country of Vrains, staining the sky in the colors of the morning- pinks and oranges and all manner of soft things, reflecting off the sea not-quite ready to glitter in the light. It ran contrary to Aoi’s mood- too sharp, too urgent. Too hasty to get the answers she knew surely had to be coming. She led that ragtag group down to the temple, rushing up its steps, Kusanagi and the Sentinel behind.

“This won’t be a trap?” Aoi heard one of them ask as they leapt up the steps, Aoi skipping neatly over the one that had been cracked by the force of the Sentinel’s winds.

“No one can open these doors but me,” Aoi said, lifting her hand to the lock and feeling something in her blood respond to the magic. The doors slid open silently, and Aoi ushered them inside before closing the doors behind them, sealing them to their fate. She glanced back at them, remembering how they’d opened of their own volition the night the Ignis had broken free, and decided that she _should_ have been the only one capable of opening the doors. She thought she’d known so very many truths, before this. Now she could only wonder which of them were real.

Aoi surveyed the inside, still wary that something might have been inside- the Ignis had well and truly left, that night they been dragged down to see something out of hell- but Aoi still felt uneasy. Something had happened that night, some sort of strange magic that none of them had been able to stop. When it seemed that the Ignis had been about to rise up and consume them all, something had appeared. It was a creature that Aoi wanted to call an angel- if that had been the right word for it at all. It hadn’t felt the same as what she now knew an angel to be, but certainly it hadn’t been human. She still didn’t know. And that, she thought, might be the mystery to tie them all together.  

But there was nothing of the sort that remained inside. The scratches on the stone were still present, a stain on the altar like a scorch mark of some sort, and the ground still seemed vaguely wet, though Aoi didn’t dwell too long on it. There was a pile of bones next to the altar- right below where the strange angel had appeared. Aoi vaguely remembered the wolfhound that had bounded through the doors with them. Aoi supposed that answered the question of what had happened to that poor creature.

“Do you want to-” began the Sentinel, but Kusanagi shook his head. The two of them were staring down at the bones, conflicted expressions on their faces. In the case of the latter, Aoi would have said _pained_.

“Better to let her rest. It’s been a long time.”

Aoi narrowed her eyes at that reply. Kusanagi certainly was a historical name, but the line had mostly faded out from any note. _A gravekeeper?_

That was a rare brand of magic indeed. Only a few individuals had ever been known to carry that power in their blood- or in their _something_ , at least, thought Aoi, again remembering Spectre’s words from the graveyard.

“So?” said the Sentinel, turning towards Aoi when it became evident that there was nothing of interest left in the temple. “You said that there was something still dormant here? Something we could use against the angels?”

“I lied,” Aoi said, acutely aware that she was positioned between them and the exit. No one seemed oblivious to the fact. Aoi kept her back straight, head up, and faced them fairly. Spectre wasn’t here- and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She had no intentions of bringing this to a fight, not when there were more important things at stake.

“I need answers,” Aoi said, feeling more invigorated than she had been since the angels had descended. It may have been a drugged sleep, but it had been sleep all the same, something that she’d needed dearly. For the first time in days, she felt bursting, alive- and yet her magic still didn’t feel like enough, like it would falter if attacked. Holly sat on one of her shoulders, tapping out a soothing rhythm, a reassurance. Aoi took a breath. No more time to hesitate. She turned to the Sentinel, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the temple. “You. What’s your name?”

“Fujiki Yusaku,” he answered, compliant but clearly braced for a fight. Aoi rolled the name around her mind, trying to see if anything about it resonated with her dreams. Nothing in particular did- except the tree, perhaps- hadn’t that fledgeling thing been a wisteria?- and so Aoi continued on.

“And tell me if this is familiar. A girl and a boy, hiding behind a tree in a graveyard. Holding out a hand to someone and telling them that they’d been cursed,” Aoi listed off the contents of her dreams one by one, eyeing the Sentinel’s reactions carefully, but his face was frustratingly blank.

“I don’t remember,” he said, not quite meeting Aoi’s eyes. She wasn’t quite sure if that was indicative of a lie or not. She decided to press.

“Not a single thing? Not even if you met those people once?” Aoi didn’t know the continuation of that dream, but she was sure it had something to do with meeting the Sentinel. His attention had slipped towards them, at the very end. There was no way they hadn’t met, for better or for worse.

But the one who answered her question then wasn’t Yusaku. Kusanagi spoke up, stepping closer towards Aoi, skirting around the altar he’d collapsed on the night the Ignis had risen, “He isn’t lying. Ever since he became a Sentinel, it’s been difficult for him to remember. Don’t hold it against him. Supposedly it’s a side effect of the process.”

 _Became?_ Aoi thought, glancing between the two of them. She was no fool. No being with any bit of common sense would try fighting the angels on that scale if they weren’t truly opposed to what the angels were doing. The Sentinel had brought the Ignis- at least the fake one- in an attempt to start the war game. And the boy who had been waiting at her side that day, even if only in a dream- it had been Spectre. No Sentinel aged. No Sentinel died.

Aoi took a breath, and asked what she’d been denied. “I need you to tell me the answer to this question. How exactly do you make a Sentinel?”

Kusanagi grimaced. Yusaku’s expression was carefully blank. And Aoi recognized that expression, knew it unmistakably from the Sentinel of her dream. The one that she and that boy had been watching. Kusanagi said, after the silence had drawn out just a while too long- “Do you really want to know?”

Aoi crossed her arms. “I think I’m very sick of people asking me that question when I’ve made it clear exactly what I want.”

“No one knows for sure,” Kusanagi said, “just the angels. Every witch who’s come close has been met with an accident. A series of accidents, in some cases.”

“And it seems you’ve made it out unscathed,” Aoi said.

Kusanagi grimaced. Aoi thought that the sooner she pried the man’s motive from him, the better. “I wouldn’t say that. But that’s not the point. You’ll be in danger if you hear any of this.”

“I’m going to lead the Defenders in the war game. I don’t think a bit of preemptive danger will be anything I can’t handle,” Aoi said, and thought that she must have some sort of value to the angels. Even with the contract she’d made with Spectre, Genome had every opportunity to kill her. His sleeping drug hadn’t even lasted the night. Whatever purpose they wanted her to serve, she needed to be alive to do it.

Finally, Kusanagi relented. “Here’s what I’ve found out so far. The process was first discovered by the angels a millenia ago. They carried out an experiment called the Hanoi Project. We don’t know what their goals were, but it couldn’t have been anything good.”

Yusaku’s frown deepened. He stepped forward, glancing over at Kusanagi. “I remember this part.”

Kusanagi nodded, and let Yusaku continue with the story. “They took three children. Me, and two others. We were supposed to represent the three worlds. Heaven, earth, and hell. Mind, blood, and bone. Life, death, and everything in between.”

“The founding principles of magic,” Aoi said. “Brought out from Vrains by the First King. Which one were you?”

Yusaku frowned. Kusanagi glanced over at him, but said nothing. Finally, Yusaku shook his head and replied- “I don’t know. I just remember what they did to us. The angels.”

“It was torture,” said Kusanagi bluntly. Aoi flinched away at the word- Sol had been founded in days of turmoil, and while things like torture had faded away with time, the thought of someone that looked her age being tortured into inhumanity was a gruesome prospect. Neither of them seemed willing to elaborate on the details if they knew or remembered, and Aoi didn’t see fit to ask.

“And then it happened again,” Kusanagi said, voice taking on a dark undercurrent that had Aoi glancing at him, at his shoulders gone stiff and hands clenched at his sides, “They took my little brother. Other children, too. I won’t stop until I have him back.”

“Neither will I,” replied Yusaku. Aoi’s gaze swiveled slow between them. She had no guarantee that they were telling the truth, but Aoi had no guarantee of anything, anymore. But contract notwithstanding, it was her birthright to fight the angels. It was the duty she’d been born into to protect her city, to fight with her life, to do the things she thought were right in the world, even if they weren’t for her own sake.

Aoi let out a breath, and thought that was what it meant to be a Zaizen- to be the Crown Princess of Sol. She said, meeting Yusaku’s gaze clearly, determined- “What can I do to help?”

* * *

Naoki returned to awareness with shuddering senses and a pounding in his head that had gone haywire, making everything a strange blot of color without line.

“Oh, good,” said the man whose face was just a spinning blur in Naoki’s sights. He was hovering over Naoki, best as he could tell, crouched down where Naoki was propped against a wall, or a pile of brick, or at the very least something hard against the back of his armor.

“What happened to Frog and Pigeon?” Naoki blurted out, jerking his head from left to right and throwing his vision all out of balance as he moved too fast. He tried to blink away the stars, then, when that failed him, he ducked his head into his hands, rubbing something ashen across his cheeks in the process. It did get the world before him to stop spinning so much, though, which he counted as a victory. His ears started to ring, though, which wasn’t very good for the man as he tried to ask Naoki a question.

“Sorry, what?”

The man waited a while, and finally Naoki felt like himself again- like a proper human being that could see and hear without a faint sheen of white over the world. Naoki blinked a few more times, and the man came into perfect clarity- he was broad-shouldered and tall, hair cut short and with oddly keen eyes. He was sweating- Naoki glanced around, slower this time- and realized that it was probably from digging him out of the rubble.

In a calm voice, the man asked, “Do you mean those two reporters? Saito and Yamamoto?”

Naoki nodded carefully, and was glad for it when the motion didn’t immediately make him feel sick, like someone had tossed him like a piece of floating driftwood in the waves. The man continued- “Then those two are fine. They ran off, talking about a morning scoop. You took most of the impact. That armor of yours seems like it held up, but it’s pretty dented. You should get it repaired before you even attempt going out again.”

Naoki grinned, puffed up his chest to boast, and immediately sort of regretted it. He definitely had a bruise there somewhere, and not the kind he got from a gentle spar. “Family heirlooms. Lonely… Nah, Brave Max only trusts the best for his heroics!” Naoki paused, then continued when the man had no reaction to his name- “So, uh, what was that, anyway?”

“I wasn’t here to witness it. Tell me what you saw,” the man said. Naoki scratched behind his ear, flicking away some of the grime that had caked itself there.

“Uhh,” Naoki said, eloquent for a moment as he tried to piece together the fragments of sensation and memory he had before it had all cut down to black. “Let’s see. The whole arena kinda… Deconstructed itself. It was floating in the air, and it kinda looked like it was supported by this red stuff? Not sure if it was magic. Maybe something the angels can do?”

“Don’t worry about speculating,” said the man, “just tell me the facts.”

Naoki nodded. “Okay, so everything was held up by this red, kinda pulsing stuff? Didn’t feel like any magic I’ve ever seen, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. It all kinda… It didn’t really float, it was just suddenly surrounding us. And then it all exploded out in this weird burst of flames. Not sure where it came from, though…”

“Anything else?” The man regarded him carefully, attentive, as if he was registering every word of Naoki’s story. For a second, Naoki couldn’t think of anything else, but then he did- he tried to wave his hands in excitement, but immediately regretted it and let them rest as his sides instead.

“Oh, and then, right before everything fell, I swear I saw this person…” Naoki stopped, glancing up at the man. “Uh, I guess that’s not a fact though. They were standing in the middle of where the flames would have come from, so I don’t think anyone could have survived that. I probably imagined it.”

“No, that’s interesting. That might have been the person who caused all this,” the man said, and Naoki made a sharp noise of understanding. “Can you recall any of the details? Was it a man? A woman? Did you catch any of their facial features, or body type?”

Naoki squinted, glancing towards the burnt-out shell of the stadium and trying to recall. He shook his head, then glanced back at the man, then stopped and squinted his eyes again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Naoki said, “but he looked kinda like you.”

The man blinked down at Naoki for a moment, startled. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” Naoki said, “Kind of. Had broad shoulders, short hair? Couldn’t make out his face because of the fire and all the rubble, but if you maybe put on a cape or something-”

Naoki stopped, suddenly aware that he’d just walked straight into the most dangerous territory of his life- forget fighting an angel, if the man standing before him really was the culprit, and if Naoki had just accused him point-blank… “That doesn’t mean I think it’s you! You dug me out of there, right, uh-”

“Aso,” said the man, expression smoothing out from vaguely rather offended- or at the very least taken aback- to something that was much more relaxed. A little amused, even. Naoki let out a sigh of relief that wasn’t quite as quiet as he imagined it would be.

Aso pushed himself to his feet, then nodded down at Naoki. “Thanks. That’s really helpful. I’m sure that someone will be here soon to help you home. Forgive me, but there’s a few things I need to attend to immediately, and you seem to have your wits about you.”

Naoki grinned. “No problem. Don’t think I want to stand up right now, anyway. Not until I get some food in me, anyway.”

With a brief smile Aso returned the sentiment, then began to weave his way through the rubble-strewn plaza, towards the far end of the arena. Though where he was headed, he had no idea.

“Hey,” Naoki called after his back. Aso turned, halting those impatient steps a moment to give Naoki his full attention. Naoki almost hadn’t expected that, so he faltered a second before saying- “So, are you protecting the city too?”

Aso started walking again. He called over his shoulder- “Something like that.”

* * *

“The First King collaborated with Hanoi?” Go said, something lurking low in his voice that sounded suspiciously like someone who thought themselves embroiled in a conspiracy. Ema supposed that he wouldn’t have been wrong to think so.

“It was the Kingdom that preceded Sol,” Ema replied, reaching out her senses for any sign of a flashback, or for the wolfhounds, and coming up disappointingly empty. There were some- a fearsome amount of them, really, holes being torn open and sewn back together, just tiny little things- as if someone was probing for something. Ema didn’t like the implications of that. She forced herself to keep talking normally. “At the time, there hadn’t been cause for alarm. That name hadn’t yet been associated with the angels. They were after similar goals. Collaborating was a given.”

“And then they came after us,” Ai chimed in, then added after a long hum, “Well, a lot happened before that. But the important thing is, I don’t want to die!”

“None of us do,” Ema replied absently, feeling something horrid rip through the air around them, something creeping and dangerous and sure to give Ema a headache when she inevitably returned.

“Yeah, that’s just great coming from you,” Ai muttered, which Ema chose to ignore as Go seemed ready to ask her another question.

“So… What about the War Games? And Blue Angel? If Hanoi and the First King were on the same side, does that mean everything I’ve been trying to protect has been meaningless?” Go’s hands were clenched tight into fists at his sides.

 _Ah,_ thought Ema, _he did swear to protect Den City, didn’t he?_

Ema shook her head. “That’s… a story of the past, now. After all. The First King’s mistakes were the First King’s mistakes. It’s not the responsibility of anyone else to fix them except the Zaizens and the remainder of the coven.”

Ema hesitated in her steps- the path through the void that had been rising to meet her suddenly cut out. Ema pulled her leg back, peering down over the edge, fearing a hellhound or some other beast of the depths, but found only the darkness staring back. Go stopped a few paces behind her, and Ema turned a slow circle. This was strange. Never had she been presented a path where her only option was to turn back.

“Why do you know all of this?”

It didn’t sound as if Go was suspicious of her, exactly, but Ema took a little bit of offense all the same. “Because I’m Ghost Girl, you know. The Zaizen family would be lost without me.”

“But you haven’t been around at all,” Go said, “and rumor on the street is that you stole something from Sol. Something that’s meant to be used to defeat the angels. That’s why you’ve never been seen with the Zaizens. They won’t say it out loud, but the rumor is that you’re a traitor to the crown.”

Ema smiled at him, though the effect was ruined by her covered mouth. She dearly hoped that it was a smile that reached her eyes. “I wonder if I have? I’ve always been a treasure hunter, you know. My treasures aren’t everything, but they certainly might outway my loyalty to an empty crown.”

Go bristled, and it seemed he was about to protest, but he didn’t get a chance to- abruptly did the world shudder around them, moving like an earthquake in two contradictory forces. One shook the small path wildly from side to side, and the Ignis yelled out as Ema swayed on her feet, keeping her balance as Go was thrown down to the ground, clinging onto the path with both hands.

Ema clutched tight to the fabric of hell itself as the world shuddered again, as the pieces of it were torn from her grasp and changed in an instant, moving from something ominous but ultimately harmless to her to something very, very dangerous. The world shuddered again, violent from side to side, and Ema dropped to one knee, resting fingertips atop the void-bricks starting to crumble. She willed them to stay, and they solidified. Against the shaking Go pushed himself back to his knees, staring at Ema as his magic flared around him, the strength embedded in those old charms flaring up wild and familiar.

Ema glanced around at the mirrors emerging from the void, pulling themselves together piece by piece. Again did the red energy thread around them, and Ema ducked her head to the ground, motioning for Go to follow her lead.

“This is bad,” she said to Go, voice an order- “Whatever you do, don’t look at those mirrors. That’s Revolver’s magic.”

Go looked obligingly at the ground, the cover on Ai’s gauntlet flicking closed- “Not you, Ignis. I’m going to need help with this.”

Ai opened the gauntlet cover back up, staring nervously at Ema’s face. “You don’t think the same trick is going to work twice, do you? I mean, I’m really tired from the last one, and-”

“You’re a spirit, aren’t you? So act like it.”

“That’s not it,” Ai whined, and Ema looked down at him, waiting expectantly for an answer that would appease her. Ai grumbled unintelligibly for a little while longer, rolling his eye around a few times, then finally continued- “I can’t. I don’t have all of my power in this form. I burned most of it up back when you did that thing with dragging Revolver down here.”

“You’re _that_ close to death?” Ema said, remembering just how vast the Ignis’ form had been back in the temple. She hardly believed such an obvious lie- but the Ignis vibrated in the gauntlet, seemingly desperate to get Ema to believe him.

“I told you! I don’t want to die! I want to get out of here and get my power back, and maybe then we can have all these fun conversations about everyone who’s trying to kill me,” Ai whined, though his words were cast in a strange haze as the shaking intensified. Ema couldn’t quite identify the source of the flashback, but it was close. Ema frowned, glancing up at the mirrors with her peripheral vision. They’d been lured into a trap, somehow- Ema didn’t know how Revolver had managed to predict their route, but he’d blocked off their next attempt at escape unless Ema could do something about it, _now_.

“Then where did you magic go?” Ema questioned, trying to trace the lines of when the Ignis could possibly have lost it- he’d been summoned, and been caged with Yusaku’s efforts on top of her own, and she knew for a fact the figure that had appeared briefly in the Temple hadn’t taken it, which left only… “Are you saying that the fake I created-”

“Has all my magic? Yes!” Ai replied, staring her straight in the eyes with a look of such pure relief that she’d finally understood.

Ema just stared down at him, wishing she understood as well as the Ignis thought she did. When she’d created the fake, she hadn’t used any power from the Ignis itself- not from _Ai_ , at least. She’d used a mix of magic. Her own, and the other two parts...

There was a cry that rang out through the air. Chilling- a child. Go’s head snapped up, and Ema all but leapt to her feet, intending to shove his head down by force, if she needed to.

“Don’t look!” Ema yelled, but the damage had already been done- Go stared up at the mirror, glancing over her shoulder to see the woman dressed in a tattered white wedding dress there-

Ema had no choice. She pivoted on the spot and raced up to the mirror, pulling her knife from its holster and letting her blood run down its blade, ready to break the illusion with everything she had-

And the moment that her knife dug straight through the glass, blood trailing down its tip, something seized onto her by the hair, curled its clammy fingers tight around the back of her neck, and dragged her backwards, jerking her away. Hell fell to wavering pieces around her, the world shifting into pieces of abstract memory and thought around her- ancient places, Vrains as it was a millennia ago and the country of Hanoi before Sol had been so much as a glimmer in the eyes of the First King.

“I thought you said no one would summon us!” Ai yelled up at her, and Ema wished she could respond- but those cold fingers had closed around her throat entirely, cutting off the air and freezing her words thick in her throat. But she thought, eyes wide and struggling against the panic rising in her chest- _No one should have. No one should have known to summon me._

As the earth came into focus before her, first in bricks and patches of sky that bled over the old scenery of angels and a cabin in the mountains, a village in flames and a wedding dress in tatters, then in the shapes of houses and the stars in the dark sky overhead, bright in the neighborhood where no lanterns glowed.

For one brief, brilliant moment, Ema soared- and then something crashed down onto her chest, slamming her to the ground with a sickening crack. For a long moment Ema’s vision went black, but she had no time to waste- she willed herself not to pass out.

She lifted her head, hair falling around her shoulders, bangs slipping into her eyes. Her vision had gone blurry, head spinning after she’d been slammed into the ground. A paw rested heavy on her chest, claws pricking through the black fabric of her jacket, teasing delicate at the skin without breaking the surface. There was a muzzle around her wrist, hellhound’s breath frigid against the metal gauntlet, teeth ready to snap down at the slightest sign of resistance- and pierce straight through her arm. Ai was silent, though she could feel his power pulsing panicked, throwing himself up against the barrier of the gauntlet like a moth trapped on the inside of a lantern glass.

And as she looked, as her vision cleared enough to see the phantom figure looming over her, she hoped- _oh, did she hope_ \- but she knew. She already knew, and despite that, the name was pulled from her a gasp- “Akira-”

And then the hellhound on her chest snarled, snapping for her face- and it all went dark.


	20. XIX [Treasonous Existences]

The Princess was gone. The Princess was gone, the Princess was gone, the Princess was gone, gone, _gone_. Kitamura paced behind his desk and refused to let this be _his_ fault. Whatever means the Princess had used, they hadn’t been of this world- his guards would have discovered that. Which left only magic as the explanation. And the only one that could have provided the Princess that-

“Where is she?” he demanded, slamming his hands against the table. Hayami jumped in her seat, hands pausing in their incessant guilty fiddling to clutch at her chest, as if her heart had skipped a few beats. And good, Kitamura thought, good indeed if it had. Maybe that would scare her into spilling something about the whereabouts of that _damned Princess_.

“I don’t know!” Hayami squeaked, trying to hide her fear to little success. And _good_ , Kitamura thought- let her be scared. This would come down on both their heads if any of the Council were to find out. He leaned down over his desk, staring her down.

“If I don’t find her,” Kitamura hissed, “they will _execute me_. But before that? I’ll see you hanged for treason. I’ll remind you that I far outrank you, Minister. Your neck under the guillotine will buy me all the time I need.”

“I didn’t help her escape,” Hayami insisted, again, which was about the most infuriating statement that Kitamura could have imagined. _I didn’t help her escape_ , he repeated in his mind in a terrible, mocking impression of Hayami’s slow-witted speech. And it was all the damn woman would say, which did nothing to help his mounting frustration.

His guard- _his guard_ \- hadn’t been able to capture a single angel so far, and the Council was already displeased. Execution- no, something worse than execution awaited him if they were to find out of the Princess’ flight from the palace, gone without a trace.

“Then who took her the charms from the Palace armory, hm? Who could have taken those to her, when she was under heavy guard? Who was the only visitor the Princess was allowed, last night?” With each accusation Hayami flinched, and Kitamura thought that they were finally getting somewhere- but at the last moment, something unexpected happened. Rather than wilting, Hayami lifted her head. When she blinked, the fear had abated. Oh, it was still there, Kitamura could tell by the way her voice trembled when she spoke again. But her words were frustratingly defiant.

“I did not let the Princess escape. I won’t allow you to slander me, Chief Kitamura. I think there are other explanations for what’s happened here.”

Kitamura clicked his tongue. “Really? Then enlighten me, Minister. _Who exactly_ helped the Princess escape? Because the only options I believe remain don’t just implicate you of treason, but _Her Highness_ , too.”

Hayami’s expression went pinched and tight, and Kitamura thought he’d trapped her. Even if she hadn’t helped the Princess, he knew how close the two of them were- once the Princess’ maid, always the Princess’ maid- and she’d take the fall rather than let the Princess be branded a traitor to her own country. A false confession was better than nothing; the details of the truth could be sorted over later.

The victors wrote the history, and Kitamura never intended to lose.

Hayami took a long breath, and Kitamura was almost crushed by the anticipation. “I didn’t help her escape.”

Kitamura could have called for her execution right then and there. But before he could, there was a knock on the door, twice, perfectly punctual. One of the guards, then. Kitamura called for them to come in. When they stepped inside, it was to perfect form, a salute and a bow.

Kitamura felt a brief glimmer of satisfaction- that was at least one bright spot in the dismal past few days. “Chief Kitamura! The hunter is here to see you. I am to inform you that he claims he has brought Ghost Girl. The Ignis as well.”

Kitamura all but smiled- it seems that the tides had finally turned. Luck was on his side, after all.

“Finally,” Kitamura replied, “someone who can do their job around here. Bring him in. And for now, get this woman out of my sight. She’ll be out of the way entirely soon enough.”

* * *

The Ignis had been crying. It had been sleeping, and yet it had been crying, screaming out in a language of emotion that far predated even the angels, even the witches, even the gods- especially the gods.

The Ignis had been crying, and the doors had flown open and the world had been spinning and the Ignis had been crying out for blood or for death or for freedom or maybe all things at once. _Mysterious purple, won’t you tell us your secrets? Won’t you tell us what the others cannot? Won’t you tell us the story of the child and the demon and the dead and the things you know in your sleeping soul? For you who’s slept a millennia will not sleep again._

Oh, the Ignis had been desperate- lashing out without understanding just why they’d been woken, wondered just why they’d sensed the presence of their own in a world so far away from home. Sleeping seals.

_Shhh keep telling the story let it go to its end tell me the story about a world where prophecy and chosen ones exist- And the mysterious purple was the last one left, all his friends gone, gone, gone and vanished away into the hearts of such a foolish man, and so he went to sleep, hid carefully but was captured and used and trapped and-_

What else was there to be done? Only what had to. _Save him save him save him_

They didn’t want to die. None of them wanted to die, none of them, none of them, not even the ones already dead, not the demons or the ghosts or the angels or the half-souled humans clattering towards their ends-

Two voices at once, the same words the same thoughts the same desires so similar they might as well be one-

_I don’t want to die_

* * *

Yusaku remembered. The Incident was not a time he liked to recall- rather, he wished he could trade those memories for all the other ones he missed, plugs for the holes in his head. He wished, but not truly.

 _“What can I do to help?”_ the Princess asked, and it was as if the world had shifted on its axis. She had no reason to make that offer, not after she’d trapped them here. Not after she’d made her stance clear.

“Are you serious?” Kusanagi asked at his side, level- as if she hadn’t been out to kill Yusaku in all their meetings prior. Yusaku’s head rang with static. He’d never been more acutely aware of the holes in his timeline as when someone tried to stir up the memories with their words. A girl. The graveyard that for so long he’d called home. The thought Spectre had thrown into his head. _One two three,_ the vague sense of resonance he couldn’t shake away.

“I am,” Aoi replied, “Any of my personal feelings aside, the two of you attempted to stop the angels from attacking Den City. You planned to force a War Game, even with false wager. Even if only for temporary alliance, I believe that marks you as trustworthy enough.”

“We didn’t do it for the sake of your city,” Yusaku replied, thinking that either the Princess was naive, or that her good faith would have better been placed elsewhere. The back of his head still rang.

She huffed, though it was rather refined, as if she was attempting to hide her true feelings on the matter. “I’m well aware of that. But I gather the two of you have someone you want to save. Whether it’s a person or a Kingdom, I believe that our goals are the same. To fight the angels, and to win.”

“You were working with one of them,” Yusaku accused, careful to keep his tone casual. No need to push away the one in they might still have remaining to them, especially not when she was the one reaching out a hand.

The Princess’ gaze flickered away, over his shoulder- towards the altar, or perhaps the space above. Yusaku remembered the strange presence that had appeared there, and it was as if a chill ran down his spine. He hadn’t liked that- no, he hadn’t been comfortable with that mystery of an event at all. The Princess said, gaze flicking back to Yusaku- “Unfortunate but necessary. The Ignis is in hell. I made a contract with a certain angel to bring it back. The other term of the agreement was subduing you, and bringing you back to the angels.”

“Back,” Yusaku repeated dryly. The Princess met his gaze stubbornly.

“I won’t apologize for doing what I needed to save my Kingdom. At the time, you weren’t seen as nearly so benevolent an entity. No same man would trust the world of a Sentinel at first meeting. I’ll remind you that our first meeting was under the context of you fighting the foremost civilian defender of our city.”

Yusaku supposed he couldn’t argue that. After all, what was he supposed to say? That he wasn’t, in fact, a creation of the angels? That his purpose hadn’t been to fight for them?

In the back of his mind, the memories stirred up by his earlier concessions flit pieces of painful memory across his mind. Magic pressing into his lungs, suffocating him. His heaving chest, the grasping hand in his darkened vision, the desperation to reach out and grab it before he drowned in the open air entirely-

He wanted to cast them away, but he couldn’t. He’d never allow it. At his side, Kusanagi began to say something in Yusaku’s defense, filling in the silence, but Yusaku hardly heard it. Instead there was a ringing in his ears. It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t just coming from his head, but the moment he did, he sprang into action.

The Temple foundations shook, and Yusaku knew this feeling, knew it perfectly well- it was the same one he’d felt on the street, as he’d been taken away along with Go to hell. It was about to surround them, something pulsing and horrid. Yusaku all but shoved Kusanagi towards the door, towards the Princess. She caught on fast, doubtless having sensed the same. She whirled back, the doors swinging open at just the touch of her fingers.

The three of them leapt outside, taking the steps down to the beach two at a time as the world around them began to shift and shake. This was different than what had caught him and Go up earlier, Yusaku thought. That had been a quick thing, an instant until they were in another world. This was something darker, more malevolent- in it was a killing intent.

The Temple began to float around them, pieces of broken wood bursting out one after the other before them. Yusaku leapt over one at his feet as the Princess ducked beneath one at his side. He landed hard on the next step and dodged around a piece of a pillar that tried to materialize directly where his shoulder was; on his other side Kusanagi did the same, almost stumbling down the last few steps but catching himself at the last minute, before Yusaku could reach out a hand.

As the three of them landed at the base of the stairs, the gravel and sand crunching beneath their feet, the three of them turned, staring back at the Temple. They were clear of the debris, but not by much- the Temple seemed intent on deconstructing itself piece by piece, floating in the air supported on void. Boards and chunks of stone flickered through the air, moving erratically through the empty space, as if they were trying to return to their proper place, but couldn’t quite manage it.   

The Princess’ magic sparked at his side, and Yusaku thought of her shields- she threw herself before Yusaku and Kusanagi as the energy in the air suddenly recoiled, sending the displaced pieces of the Temple snapping back into place with a thundering roar. Again did the Princess throw out her hands, and again did her shields shelter them from the matching blast of energy outwards.

She dug her feet into the gravel, even as the burst of energy pushed her back on her toes, dragging lines through the sand. Pieces of stone and wood bashed against her shields, but she grit her teeth, set her shoulders, and stood steady against it, the energy trailing in waves around them, lashing out and scouring into the beach around them.

The energy intensified a moment, a wave crashing over their heads. The Princess lifted one hand to the sky, and the curve of her shields followed, but she was nearly pushed off her feet by the strength of the wave that crashed up against them, full of jagged energy that sliced at her shields. She stumbled, and Yusaku placed a hand at her back to steady her- the time to be tentative was over.

The wave came down over their heads, but the Princess’ shields held- until the third wave of the explosion came at them, jagged pieces of magic that shone, catching the light of the sun. They pierced straight through the shield, sending the Princess staggering backwards and into Yusaku as her shields broke.

The energy of the wave hit them at near full force- Yusaku used the split second he had to raise the wind, pushing back against the strange magic, while Kusanagi tugged at the spirits in the area, shrouding them in a mist of souls. The magic still tore through both protections, sending them sprawling over the beach.

Only then did it finally subside, and the three scrambled to their feet- Yusaku first, winds still whipping at his fingertips as he surveyed the ruined Temple. Kusanagi was on his feet a moment later, eyes narrowed as he searched for their enemy.

Judging there was no one amongst the ruins of the caved-in temple, Yusaku turned back to the Princess, who had pushed herself up to a sitting position. He quickly glanced her over, searching for wounds- whatever had pierced through those shields must have gone through her- but found none. “Are you okay? That attack didn’t hit you?”

“I’m fine,” the Princess replied, uncurling her left fist- inside it was a bloody shard of jagged glass, pointed sharp and thick as her palm. “I caught it.”

She took a few long breaths- clearly she felt strained. Yusaku extended her a hand, and she accepted it with her right. He tugged her easily to her feet. Her fae came fluttering from the ground not a moment latter, chattering worriedly over her bloody palm. The Princess dropped Yusaku’s hand, glancing at their ruined surroundings, at the long scores down the beach, then back towards the Temple with a frown. Her guardian settled on her shoulder, and the Princess curled her fist back around the bloody shard.

“If we make use of those,” the Princess said, “what are the chances that we can bring back the Ignis?”

“That’s how we’ll do it,” Kusanagi said suddenly, “that’s how we can bring back Onizuka and that card.”

Yusaku nodded- it was dangerous, but he was confident he could withstand it. He’d done it once, and he could do it again, even if the flashback was more violent, this time.

At his side, the Princess stiffened. “Go? Go Onizuka? What happened to him? Was he caught in one of those?”

Yusaku nodded, but before he could give a proper answer, the sound of clattering armor came down to them, a dozen feet in a unison march. The three of them took shelter behind one of the rocks draped in paper and rope beside the Temple, temporarily out of view from the newcomer’s advance.

“The Royal Guard,” the Princess said, watching their approach with distaste, “If they catch us, we’ll all be accused of treason. I guarantee it.”

“We can’t fight them off?” Yusaku asked, glancing around the rock, towards the flow of guards, all of them moving precise, scanning the area careful for any sign of the perpetrator. He didn’t dare reach out his magic, but the aura he could feel radiating off of them was unpleasant.

“If you’d like to kill off all of the remaining goodwill anyone at the Palace might have for you, then feel free,” the Princess said, peering around his shoulder and adjusting the bracelets on her wrists. “Even my word won’t be enough if you attack Kitamura’s guard.”

Yusaku watched as the guard approached, thinking that something about them turned his stomach, made something in him curl with instinctive distaste- not quite fear, but more like repulsion. The sense that something was not right about their magic. He didn’t know why- perhaps it was another fragment of lost memory.

But the problem at hand remained- they couldn’t stay here. Every second they lingered, the guard came closer down the path, and their chances of being discovered were higher.

“Here,” Kusanagi said, waving them further down the beach. Yusaku followed the way he was pointing, down the curve towards the distant docks.

“Do you have somewhere we can go?” the Princess asked. Yusaku glanced up at Kusanagi, inclining his head towards where he assumed the residential district was. Kusanagi blinked, considering, then nodded.

“It wouldn’t be better for you to go back with the guard?” Kusanagi asked as they made use of an opening to duck closer down towards the docks. The Princess just shook her head. She waved a finger towards her guardian, and the fae fluttered off a ways behind them, keeping an eye on their rear.

“No,” she replied, “it wouldn’t. I’ll explain later. For now, let’s _go_.”

Her last words were an order; one that they had no reason to refuse. As the Royal Guard arrived at the Temple, marching orderly up its steps to investigate, the three of them snuck away, back into the city waking with the explosion that accompanied dawn.

* * *

Hayami scurried out of Kitamura’s office and breathed a long sigh of relief. She hadn’t lied, certainly- she hadn’t been any part of Aoi’s escape, save to watch it happen. And luckily, Kitamura hadn’t asked about that. But that wasn’t enough to save her, and she knew it.

Hayami paced circles around her small office, trying to think of a way to get out of her accusations without accusing the Princess herself of treason for colluding with the angels or outright abandoning the Palace entirely to become a fugitive. She’d never survive that life, and she knew it.

Hayami paced, and hit the wall, then turned and paced and hit the wall again, and when she turned the final time, she found herself face to face- or rather, face to body- with a small yellow guardian, wings almost brushing Hayami’s face. Hayami squeaked, but managed to keep it soft- there were guards just outside her door, she knew, pacing casually up and down the hall as if they weren’t sent by Kitamura to keep an eye on her.  

“You’re one of her Highness’ guardians, aren’t you?” Hayami whispered up to the fae, who trilled a happy agreement. She trilled again to Hayami’s next question- “Did Her Highness send you here?”

Hayami smiled despite herself- that must have meant the Princess was safe, and doing what she needed to. The Princess truly had grown so much from the sullen young girl she’d been after the accident. Hayami almost shuddered just thinking back on that time, when she’d been just a girl herself, unequipped to deal with such wounds of the heart save read Aoi storybooks and listen to her dreams.

“You want to help Aoi, don’t you?” she asked the guardian, who nodded vehemently in response. “Then will you help me for a little while? There’s something I want to investigate, and relay back to the Princess. Can you stay a little while?”

The fae thought for a moment, twirling a bit of hair around a small finger for a while, then eventually nodded.

“Thank you,” Hayami said, and then scrambled around her small office, thrown into disarray with the events of the past few days, searching for a pad of paper and something to write with, something that wouldn’t be amiss for her to carry in her duties. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to roam the Palace freely- not when she knew Kitamura would make good on his threat- but she’d make the most of every second. Inside her drawers, there were more than just supplies- or rather, they were all just supplies, but Hayami had left a small knife inside one of her drawers, mostly used to open up old rusted locks on small wooden boxes that crossed her path from the archives. Hayami slipped it into her bag, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it- not that she really knew how. But magic, too, was beyond her. If it came down to it… She’d do what she had to, or at least die trying.

The guardian sang a worried note down to her, but Hayami shook her head and reached out a finger with a comforting smile, the way she’d seen Aoi do a dozen times over.

“I’ll be fine. Just worry about what we have to do for the Princess now, okay?”

The fae reached out small hands to touch Hayami’s finger and nodded, expression solemn.

“Good,” Hayami continued, then straighten her back, tapped her pen against the notebook, and readied herself to do whatever she must.


	21. XX [As Worlds Collide]

Go Onizuka saw a strange world.

The bricks of hell beneath his hands and knees had been replaced with grass, soft in his grasp. The world no longer shook, though in his chest the terrible sense of _wrongness_ still pervaded. He had known that scream, known it perfectly well. That had been Makoto. The doctor’s medicine had helped, certainly, and his fever had broken, but that meant nothing if someone had gone out to attack him. If the same thing that had dragged him down to hell had happened at the orphanage- Go leapt to his feet and surveyed his surroundings.

There were no sight of the children, and no sight of hell at all, for that matter. He’d landed himself in the middle of a field- or rather, a graveyard, thought Go, seeing a few headstones poised near the very edge of the hill. It was yet a small one, probably just for the small village he could see down the road. He stood beside a sapling, a small thing that seemed as if it was just beginning to grow into its branches and widening trunk. The leaves had turned an array of yellow and gold and red, drifting slowly down to cover the path that had been trampled through the grass beside it. Distantly down from near the village, a man and woman were walking up the hill, drawing closer to Go at a brisk pace. Their words were carried to him by the wind, blowing brisk with the early signs of winter.

“I told you,” said the woman, in a voice that was immediately familiar. _Ghost Girl_. There was nowhere for Go to hide, so he simply stood in the middle of the field. He quickly touched his earring- just a simple silver loop- and let the magic from it flow. It wasn’t his usual kind of magic, but he’d quickly learned that it was to his advantage to have- a cloaking charm, one that altered perceptions of him just enough to make him unrecognizable.

The children at the orphanage had laughed the day he’d bought it, shrieking in unabashed delight at the way their idol seemed suddenly to switch between guises- a strange merchant from one of Makoto’s drawings, the Princess herself, and even what Go hoped was a passable imitation of the plush bear sitting on the windowsill. The charm didn’t work on his own perception, but from the flow of its magic he could tell it had taken effect.

Down in the field, the man began to protest, “Yes, but-”

“Oh, hush, you,” said Ghost Girl, and finally did the two come properly into view. Ghost Girl was almost identical to the one that Go knew- though her mouth was uncovered, and her clothes were slightly different- a little bit older styled, much more reminiscent of a kimono than the sleek, new style of Sol. She gently chided the man walking next to her, matching her pace step for step. “Walking a while won’t kill you.”

“Perhaps not,” the man conceded, “but the rather troublesome parties that live here might.”

Go squinted, wondering if he should risk creeping closer or not. There was a direct line of sight between them; surely if they’d been able to see him, they would have called out. Not one to hesitate, Go stepped forwards quickly, crossing the field towards them in quick strides. Ghost Girl and the man didn’t so much as react.

At this distance, he could see a bit better the details of their faces, their clothes- and Go paused. Ghost Girl, certainly, looked no different than he remembered save her clothing. But the man that walked beside her Go couldn’t mistake. Draped in a silver mantle, dressed in the steel silver and navy of the Royal family. It couldn’t have been- the window of opportunity between the coronation and when the rumors of Ghost Girl having returned to Sol, searching for a Royal treasure hardly matched up.

Rather than where he was, Go began to wonder _when_ he was. If this was a vision, perhaps none of it mattered at all. Perhaps it was all only a fabrication, something designed to trap Ghost Girl- a fantasy, perhaps. But even as he thought it, Go wondered if that wasn’t wrong. The detail of it was too perfect, too crisp to be taken from anything other than a memory.

For a moment the two paused, Ghost Girl stepping forwards to survey the empty land.

“I think this would make a lovely venue,” Ghost Girl said, waving her hand out at the field, past Go.

The man frowned. “A graveyard? This is really the place? I thought you would have preferred something more grand. I can still arrange for the palace to host the event. I assure you, there would be no complaints-”

Ghost Girl shook her head. “No. If we can, I’d like to do it here. It’s close to home. And besides. That stuffy old palace doesn’t belong to the modern era. Now, if you put me in charge of the renovations…”

“Then your tastes would put our country into terrible debt,” said the man- said the King of Sol. If there had been any doubt, he erased it with his words then. He added, not quite an accusation, “You just don’t want to conduct the ceremony on the ring.”

Ghost Girl hummed. “I have my reasons for that.”

“And I presume you won’t tell me until after the ceremony?”

Ghost Girl’s smile was teasingly bright. “Let me keep my mystery a while longer, Akira. I don’t want you getting bored of me.”

Akira returned it softly. “Of you? Never.”

He stepped forwards to whisper something in her ear, and Ghost Girl laughed before grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him forth, out further up the hill, towards the small shack that stood at the very top where the mountain base turned to woods. Go watched their backs a while, but they were no longer speaking- or if they were, the sound was muted to Go, the details of the memory lost to time as the world around him began to blur into pieces of color and sensation.

It was only then that Go noticed that he wasn’t alone in his eavesdropping. There was a head poking out from behind one of the gravestones, belonging to a small figure- a child. Go’s first thought that it was the one who had screamed, perhaps- but his attempts to step forward were hindered by his sudden inability to control his own body. He stood frozen in place, but the child poked their head out from behind the gravestone, tilting it to follow the progress of the couple who’d faded to nothing but streaks of black and silver in the green distance.  

But her face Go recognized clearly, even without the girl herself having to say a word- she was younger, and less put together, held more freedom in the curl of her posture, but the look in her eyes was the very same- Aoi hid behind a gravestone, watching Ghost Girl and the King of Sol stroll past with eyes that didn’t seem to recognize them at all.

* * *

“I won’t forgive them.”

Spectre seethed, pacing the floor of the abandoned pottery shop back and forth, magic sparking off him in roiling waves. Aso frowned at him, but Spectre wouldn’t make eye contact, too interested in tracing the lines of the floor, kicking up the dust around his feet. Spectre turned to pace another round, hands clasped behind his back, and Aso snapped his fingers. A small spark of magic danced red through the air, landing atop Spectre’s fingers and making the boy jolt, startled.

He knew the touch of the magic, of course, and whirled around to face Aso, who fixed him with a stern look. “Stop burning magic.”

Spectre’s frown deepened, but he stopped his pacing and took a few deep breaths of dusty air. He cleared his throat immediately afterwards, but it settled the magic leaping from him impatient and agitated. Aso continued- “Save what you can. You know how important that is.”

“I know,” Spectre said, then sighed. His gaze flicked over to Kyoko and Genome, the former prodding at the wound still oozing magic on the latter’s chest. Aso’s gaze flicked that way, too- that shouldn’t have happened. No matter how powerful the Zaizen magic, to inflict a wound that their magic couldn’t heal within a few hours was unheard of- they’d been through the two war games of centuries past in order to prove just that. So it was true, then. They hadn’t been there, three hundred years ago when Ryoken had used his magic to do the unthinkable, but that was the proof it had succeeded.

Genome hissed as Kyoko prodded just a touch too hard, and the entire room flinched. Aso resisted the urge to sigh, to close his eyes as his vision flashed red. He’d already been sleeping when Playmaker had attacked them. He could no longer afford to let his guard down.

The Princess would be a matter to investigate later; for the time being he’d have to trust in the contract she’d made with Spectre to buy them the last bit of time they needed. Ryoken was still the strongest of them all. If they could just hold out until then, if they could trust in Ryoken to bring back the Ignis from where it had vanished in Ghost Girl’s possession to hell…

Aso shook away his hesitations. He had no other choice. After centuries Ryoken had finally returned to them- even as Revolver. That had to be enough.

“We keep doing what we can. We get Playmaker and the final Ignis on our side as soon as possible, and hope he’ll listen to sense.” Aso said, putting more confidence into his voice than he felt. His job was to be their final pillar; he hoped that the least he could do was convince them of that.

Whether the rest of them were convinced or not, they nodded. The restless atmosphere in the room settled, and Spectre perched on a small stool near the counter, across from where Kyoko was looking a seated Genome over.

“I’ll make him see sense,” Spectre said. Aso glanced over at him- his ability was useful, though the way it had manifested was alarming in and of itself. He glanced over at Genome again, who looked very much as if he wanted to complain about whatever Kyoko had created this time to dab over his wound.

“And that Kusanagi, again,” Genome muttered instead. Aso did sigh, then. That wasn’t a matter he wanted to think of either. Of all the people to join with, it seemed that Playmaker had found the most troublesome- first Ghost Girl, then Kusanagi. Luckily, Aso thought, humans were of the easier variety to deal with.

But he didn’t have time to voice his thoughts- at that moment a feeling seared through the room, cutting sharp through the air and straight through their chest, their lungs. The four of them froze, heads swiveling in the same direction, straight towards the dirty, boarded-up window.

“Did you feel that?”

There was no need to ask- all of them had felt that same curl in their spine, the same call of that old magic- ancient and terrifying, a force that could stand against even their own.

“I’ll go,” Spectre said, glancing around the room. Before anyone could so much as lift a hand to stop him, Spectre was gone. The tension that rose between the three of them was palpable- three hands ready to reach out and stop him, none so much as able to say a word. Three sighs of resignation as the tension burst.

“I do wish he wouldn’t be quite so rash,” Kyoko said, to which Genome almost snorted.

“You know how he is. The worry’s probably eating him alive.”

Kyoko glanced up at him, then dabbed the new potion particularly hard on his wound. He did hiss, that time, but immediately the slow bleed of yellow from the open portion stopped. The flesh didn’t quite knit itself back together, but Aso watched as Genome’s magic began to stitch it back together. Kyoko said, bluntly, “As if you aren’t.”

Genome clicked his tongue and looked away, bracing himself for Kyoko to clean the rest of the wound.

“We can’t fail here,” Aso said, speaking what Spectre’s actions had implied so clearly to all of them. “If we want to put anything right, then we can’t fail.”

“We’ll make it through,” Kyoko echoed, meeting Aso’s eyes with a softness beneath the steel of them. A worry, and a secret. He had known her- had cared for her long enough to know. He glanced up at Genome, who wouldn’t quite meet his eyes, either. He glanced between the two of them, then fiddled with the ring on his finger.

And it was as if the dam had burst. Kyoko said, all at once- “He had the ring, Aso.”

“He-”

“Kusanagi,” she said, and that was all that needed be.

* * *

Shima Naoki did not, admittedly, make it home for a while. The first few times he’d tried to pick himself up after Aso had left him, it hadn’t gone particularly well. Every time he tried to bend to push himself up, his chest had seized up uncomfortably, and every time he’d tried to push his way up by brute force, something in his knee had popped uncomfortably. It was only the rush of panic at the sight of the oncoming Royal Guard, marching down through the plaza, that had motivated Naoki to push through the shortness of breath and scurry quickly away. The Royal Guard had been a force since the angels had descended, and Naoki wanted nothing to do with them, especially not if it ended with accusations leveled his way.

The dawn had crawled along over the horizon, and Naoki assumed it was around seven, or eight, potentially nine- apparently having an arena dropped over his head had messed with his perception of time. Either way, he didn’t think it mattered. He’d just drop into bed, pass out, and deal with the matter of food when he woke up.

Naoki opened his front door and slipped inside, glad that he’d apparently left all the curtains drawn for how dim it was inside, easy on his tired eyes. He shrugged off his shoes, then glanced up into his living room, ready to grab his futon from the closet.

There was a fruit basket sitting on his low table- and three people around it. Naoki almost shrieked, unprepared for a fight with the way everything he was seemed to ache as he leapt backwards, colliding with the wall behind him.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” said a voice, and Naoki almost leapt out of his skin again. Yusaku and Kusanagi he might have been able to expect, _maybe_ , but her? The Crown Princess of Sol, sitting in his living room? She blinked at him, looking poised and delicate, and also like she might evict Naoki from his own home, if that’s what it came to.

Naoki stuttered out an introduction. “Pleased to meet you? Brave Max, I mean, uh, Shima Naoki, at your service.”

Naoki bowed. He immediately regretted it, and swept an arm out and under himself in that new-style performance fashion he’d been adopting for the ring lately to hide the way he just wanted to use his arm to support his aching gut. _Definitely bruises. Definitely a lot of bruises._

The Princess nodded. “Please, just call me Aoi. Formalities keep making these conversations much longer than they need to be.”

“Uh, right, um, Aoi?”

Calling the Crown Princess by name seemed strange. She’d always been such a distant figure, to suddenly be on a first name basis was almost unthinkable. But, Naoki thought, there was still a chance that he was dreaming all of this. That he was still passed out in the square, hopefully not dying slowly under a pile of rubble, waiting for someone to smack him back to consciousness. Well, if he was, Naoki hoped that his dream would get rid of all the pain, quick.

“Soooo,” he said, after a moment of very awkward silence, “why are you all in my house?”

“You don’t lock your doors,” Yusaku replied, “and also the place we’re staying… burned down.”

Yusaku glanced over at Kusanagi as he spoke, which Naoki took to mean that there was way more to the story there than they were willing to tell him. Naoki frowned. He’d let them into his house while they were fleeing the Sentinel. He’d hoped, given that they’d broken in, that they’d tell him at least a little more of the story than that.

“Oi, you mean one of those weird things? Where a building comes apart?” All three gazes in the room swiveled to rest on him, trying to pry him open- Naoki immediately held up his hands, and was glad he hadn’t taken off his helmet yet. Though he was pretty sure there weer rocks in it, somehow, it gave him at least the pretense of protection from those gazes.

“Tell us everything you know,” Aoi insisted, and Naoki wondered where he’d even start- from the beginning, he figured, and decided that the rocks in his helmet actually did outweigh the brief sense of protection he got from it. He pulled it off his head and shook out his hair in the entryway, then stepped up to the rest of them, figuring out how to word his story- but didn’t get into so much as a word of it before something blood-curdling flashed through the air.

“Did you sense that?” Yusaku said, turning around to the group. Kusanagi nodded, Aoi not a second behind. Naoki wondered how they could be so calm about it- that sensation hadn’t been pleasant. And that was an understatement- it had felt about how Naoki imagined getting eviscerated would, which just made him want to collapse all over again.

“But what was that?” he asked, shoving down the thought. Aoi and Yusaku turned to look at him in unison.

“A rip between the worlds,” Aoi said, the very same moment that Yusaku replied-

“The Ignis.”


	22. XXI [In the Face of Memory]

“Oh. You’re awake.”

Ghost Girl’s posture didn’t stiffen from where she was lying back on the stone slab, locked away behind the bars of the cell. Her back was to Akira, but he could tell from the shift in the air that she’d woken- the brief hitch in her breath, the very soft movement she made upon finding her arm resting upon the hard stone. To her credit, if Akira had been most anyone else, they likely wouldn’t have noticed she was awake at all.

“You’re quite keen, aren’t you?” Ghost Girl asked, rolling graceful from her side to sit on the side of the slab. Her hair fell long over her shoulder to pool in her lap as she rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her eyes were teasing as she stared at Akira, sitting on a stool on the other side of the cell bars. Akira thought that perhaps she didn’t understand the position she was in.

He stood; Ghost Girl’s gaze followed him up. “Do you understand why you’ve been brought here?”

Ghost Girl hummed. “What did they tell you? Treason, I assume? Betrayal of the crown?”

“That, and theft of the ancestral regalia,” Akira said, narrowing his eyes at her. Ghost Girl’s tone was much too light, much too flippant. If teasing was her way of accepting she had no control over the situation, then Akira supposed he’d have to strip her of that, too. “If you know why you’re here, then this will make things short.”

“You do always enjoy things being punctual, don’t you?

Akira narrowed his eyes. At his feet, his hounds stirred, ears perked and eyes locked on Ghost Girl, waiting for his command. He tapped his heel against the rung of the stool- _wait_. “What do you know about me?”

Ghost Girl smiled. The traces of rouge on her lips only made the taunt that followed that much more mysterious. “More than you know about yourself, likely.”

“Don’t be cryptic. I’m here now for answers,” Akira replied. He’d been told Ghost Girl might resort to this- these ramblings of a woman condemned. The nonsense of a witch who’d turned her back on her purpose.

“Then ask your questions,” Ghost Girl replied, straightening up and brushing her hair back over her shoulder. Akira followed the motion, acutely aware of the way that Ghost Girl’s magic worked- she had no weapon on her, but there were any number of ways that blood could be drawn.

“The treasure that you stole. Where is it?”

Ghost Girl sighed. “I don’t know. It isn’t as if I keep my treasures on a leash, you know.”

“You talk as if what you stole was alive,” Akira said. He thought, briefly- what was stolen was a weapon. No weapon moved and talked- save a Sentinel. He’d seen the proof of that weapon himself, chasing the streets. It was possible… Akira kept that in careful mind.

Ghost Girl’s answer, as expected, said nothing about the possibility. “I’ve stolen a lot of things over the years. Some of them might have been alive.”

“Might have?” Akira asked.

“You tell me,” Ghost Girl replied- “Does a heart count as alive?”

Akira scoffed, shaking his head. This was getting him nowhere, and there were things he needed more urgently. The Council could deal with a witch using an assumed name. It was their treasure, after all. Akira was only under their employ; he needn’t go that far.

“Where is the Princess?” Akira demanded, standing from his chair. Ghost Girl stood from her spot and smiled that mysterious smile again. As far as Akira could tell, it was a genuine thing. Kind. Not quite sad, but honest. Prideful, perhaps. Akira couldn’t possibly fathom why- it wasn’t as if she’d any bond with the girl save a fleeting encounter, more rumor than fact. She walked up to the bars in small, sauntering steps. She was small- she might as well have stayed seated. Still, she looked up at him with eyes that were unafraid.

“That’s not really something you should be asking in that kind of tone,” she said, and before Akira could protest, she added- “I don’t know. She didn’t ask me for help in escaping. And I won’t tell you who did help her, because I’m afraid that entire escape incident happened after I was dragged down to hell.”

“But you are aware that she’s left the Palace without permission,” Akira said, noting Ghost Girl’s phrasing. So she truly had turned against the Crown, then.

“Your question did make it rather obvious,” Ghost Girl said, smiling at him again. Akira rather wished she wouldn’t- it was making interrogating her a much more difficult business than it needed to be. Akira had paused too long in his thought, and it left Ghost Girl a chance to continue her sentence, attempting to seize control of the conversation. “Who on the council are you working for? Bishop? He’s the most proactive of them all, isn’t he?”

“I have no intention of revealing that,” he replied. If Ghost Girl was out of the loop about court matters, then he had no intention of enlightening her.

“And how much are they paying you, hm? Because if it’s money you’re after, I’m sure I have a fortune somewhere that will suit your fancy,” Ghost Girl offered, a dark glimmer in her eyes. It wasn’t genuine; Akira knew that immediately.

“I’m not you,” Akira replied, “I won’t be swayed from my duty by coin.”

Ghost Girl stepped back from the bars, and yet again did she smile at him. This time it was relief that crossed her face. Akira paused, and wondered why in the three worlds Ghost Girl would ever be _pleased_ that he’d denied her so much as an opportunity for freedom. But he wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t give her the opportunity to try and cloud his sights.

But Ghost Girl answered nonetheless. “That’s good, you know. You wouldn’t be yourself if you turned a blind eye for the sake of money. You’re not that kind of person.”

Akira turned on his heel and made for the stairs. Perhaps it had been a waste of his time to try and interrogate her- perhaps she was just a common traitor, abandoning her duty for the sake of worldly pleasures and a rush of danger. Perhaps she really did know nothing about the Princess- about his next target. But even as he left, he knew he’d return- the feeling in his gut, the instinct he’d always trusted- it told him that Ghost Girl knew something she hadn’t let on.

(And it told him, a little more uncomfortably, that what she claimed to know about _him_ wasn’t so absurd as he wanted it to be.)

* * *

In the dream, there were two.

It was not a dream of Sol, or of some imagined destiny, or of graveyards and Sentinels and angels that were somehow boys, wingless and quiet, different from the only way she knew them. It was not quite a nightmare, though it resembled the ones Aoi had in her youth, when she’d wake crying in the night, calling out the names of those who would not, could not save her.

In the dream, Zaizen Aoi saw her mother. Aoi, in truth, remembered very little of her mother- not her face, and certainly very little of her manner, nothing of her voice. It was a phantom of a woman, really- a ghost made from her own mind.

But in the logic of the dream, Aoi didn’t realize. She clung to her mother’s hand, crown placed gentle atop her head, and hid behind the long sleeve of her kimono, peering out at the empty room where the dignitaries were to arrive.

“Hush,” her mother said as they settled down side by side, kneeling soft upon the soft tatami. Aoi hadn’t been speaking. When her mother said those words, she hardly dared to breathe. The doors slid open, the golden screens painted beautiful with illustrations of angel wings and cranes in flight over a field of red spider lilies.

They opened, and the darkness crawled in. One by one did the pieces of it sleeze towards them, blurry shapes with no meaning in Aoi’s mind- she wanted to cry out, but her mother’s words had silenced her- _hush, Aoi, hush._

The darkness came closer. Her mother pried Aoi’s hand from hers and wrapped her up tight in the folds of her kimono, turning her back to the dark- Aoi wanted to protest, wanted to cry out, but she couldn’t, couldn’t-

“Remember, Aoi,” said her mother, right before the darkness tore her to shreds, “Blue Angel can protect, but she can also destroy. It’s a duality- like light and dark, like heaven and hell. The two can’t exist without the other. If one is destroyed, then the other too shall perish.”

“But what about the earth?” Aoi asked, grasping desperate at the shreds of her mother floating through the red-lined darkness- “What about me?”

She lunged, hands grasping empty air. The wings at her back were beautiful things of white, delicate and gentle and utterly immobile, dead weight at her back as she fell into the void. Two hands, familiar and safe reaching out for her, ready to drag her up, to save her.

But from the darkness a strike, a crown falling from her head, the sound of a strange weapon and the mark burned into the back of her neck being pulled away from her by a cold hand.

“This time,” snarled a familiar voice, “I’ll do away with you for good-”

* * *

“Come on, come on! We’ve gotta get this news out!” came a loud voice from outside the door. There was the sound of something vaguely being pressed to the door, then the slide of paper beneath it. Aoi blinked hazily awake, lifting her head from the futon that Naoki had dragged out for her.

She still felt slightly drained after holding off that strange hellmagic, but the sleep had done her well, even if it had ended up as unnerving as a nightmare. She’d have preferred a dream that would have shed light on the situation at hand- not another cryptic promise of a future that no one yet knew. She was already sure that her dreams weren’t prophecy- not when they didn’t have so much as a children’s tale to back its legitimacy.

Aoi shuffled to the door, picking up the paper and squinting at it- the curtains were still drawn, and though Aoi knew it must have been approaching midday at the earliest, it was still dim inside the small house. Nevertheless, the headline was printed plain in bold text- _ACCIDENT STRIKES ARENA. ANGEL MAGIC?_

Aoi frowned down at it, skimming the details of the article- which were nothing more than Naoki had told them in the morning. The details were less, in fact, though the dry account served to jog Aoi’s memory as she slipped back into the living room. The arena, and the Temple. An attack on the middle of the street, flashbacks caught up one after the other. Aoi frowned and returned to the low table, grabbing an apple from the fruit basket that had been left out on it.

Yusaku and Kusanagi had gone out in the morning to try and find a pattern to the flashbacks. Aoi thought that the least she could do was try for the same. Both large ones had been at public areas, though she doubted there was any pattern towards the smaller ones appearing in the middle of the street, or in the few other places that the news article mentioned.

Aoi glanced down at the very bottom of the page- the article had been short, clearly an emergency printing. The last line was a simple- _If you enjoyed our release, please throw us a few coins. We can’t do this without the support of all Den City_.

Aoi shook her head, set down the paper, and took a bite of the apple as the delivery men continued to bicker rather nonsensically outside. But their senseless chatter didn’t last long.

“Halt,” called a voice, steady and unwavering. Aoi knew that intonation, knew it perfectly. The only ones who spoke with that particular monotone were the Royal Guard on duty. She’d heard it a thousand times over, and a chill ran up her spine to hear it here. She gently moved to the window, grabbing her hairpins from the table and clipping them in gently, just in case. Her ring never left her finger, and she didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of her earrings, not when there might be danger at hand.

“Uh, yes? Sir?” called a nervous voice. Aoi gently pushed the curtain aside to peer out the side of the window. Two men were stopped nervously just outside the window, one older, waving a pipe with no smoke, the younger fiddling nervously with the stacks of papers in his hands.

Approaching them, indeed, were two members of the Royal Guard. They walked in perfect unison, and even Aoi, who had grown up around them and spent years evading their capture to sneak about the Palace and its grounds as she pleased, found them rather intimidating like this. She ducked a little lower in the window, counting on the shadows to keep her from being seen in the midday sun. One of them said- “This is a mandatory inspection. In order to eliminate the influence of the angels in Den City, we are conducting checks on civilians found wandering the streets against the curfew order.”

“Curfew order?” croaked the older man, “What the hell do you mean, curfew order? It’s the middle of the day!”

“In light of the events of the night, civilians have been instructed per the orders of Security Chief Kitamura to keep to their homes for the duration of the day. Names and affiliations.”

The young man with the papers squeaked as the older man groaned. The latter said first- “Yamamoto. Most call me Frog. Owner of the Den City Press.”

He nudged the young man beside him, who said, shrill- “Pigeon! I mean, Saito! Den City Press, uh, correspondant?”

Saito glanced over at Yamamoto, fiddling with the stack of papers in his hands so hard Aoi thought he might end up ripping them in half. Yamamoto said, more confidently- “Correspondent.”

“Correspondent,” Saito repeated, better than the first time but rather undermining the point of Yamamoto’s calm facade. The two guards didn’t so much as acknowledge the dialogue between the two.

Instead, the one closer to Saito began to speak again. “In addition. Your papers are illegal. All reports on sightings of flashbacks may be published by the royal press exclusively. Relinquish them immediately.”

The Guard held out his hand. Saito immediately clutched the papers closer to his chest, taking a half-step back. Aoi narrowed her eyes- the guards would exploit that in a heartbeat. But before they got the chance, Yamamoto stepped in front of him, blocking the way.

“If we don’t have our business, we’ve got nothing,” said Yamamoto, croaking out his words, “You hear? Nothing. No food, not roof over our heads. If we don’t put these papers out, you’re gonna starve us.”

The guard didn’t so much as hesitate. They reared out their magic, pressing down a physical weight that even Aoi could sense. It was doubtless constricting around the two reporters. They repeated dully, “Relinquish the papers.”

“Boss,” whispered Saito in a voice that wasn’t very soft at all, “let’s just hand them over.”

“And when is the royal press going to release those reports, huh? If they couldn’t even spread one royal decree out properly, who’s going to keep the people informed, huh?” Yamamoto said, then let out a terrible, choked noise.

“The papers,” the guard said, then held out their hand. Saito took one glance between Yamamoto and the guard, then shoved the stack of fliers into the guard’s waiting hand. The guard snatched them away, and shredded them to dust in a small, sharp cut of magic before releasing Yamamoto, who stumbled on his feet as he gasped for air but didn’t quite fall over.

“This will go on your record. Return to your home immediately,” said the guard, then turned away. They returned to the side of the second, and the two of them resumed their march down the street as the evidence of Yamamoto and Saito’s work fluttered scraps through the air around them, dancing in the wind that blew them out towards distant corners.  

Aoi wondered if there was anything she could do- distanced like this from the Palace, she had nothing to offer. Nonetheless, she opened the window a crack, sticking a hand out to wave them over. It took a moment for them to notice- Yamamoto reassuring a twitchy, apologizing Saito. But once they did, the two of them wandered over to the window, curious about the hand and the pair of eyes glancing over the sill. The moment they drew close enough to shelter her from passing eyes, Aoi poked her head up fully over the sill.

“You’re-!”

“Hush,” Aoi said, soft but sharp with order. The young man slapped his hand over his mouth, which was conspicuous, but better- two men speaking to a window was conspicuous enough in and of itself, she supposed. She’d keep this short. “Did you see those flashbacks? Where, and when?”

The two men exchanged a glance. “The big one at the arena, then a couple of smaller ones out on the streets? Then there was that one over by the docks too.”

“The docks?” she asked suddenly- “Where on the docks? And how large?”

The frogish man crossed his arms, considering. “Hmm. Maybe two days ago? It was pretty tiny. Just saw it from afar though. Seemed like it was close to the warehouses?”

“It didn’t destroy any of them, did it?” Aoi asked, thinking suddenly of Go Onizuka, of the fights, of the last night before it had all gone to hell. He’d promised her a manuscript, one that spoke of heaven and hell and all the things between. She’d nearly forgotten, too preoccupied with the angels themselves. But perhaps, Aoi thought, just perhaps, if the fates were still with her, then-

“Nope, definitely didn’t!” said Saito.

“Thank you,” Aoi said, and knew immediately what she had to do. This would be her only chance, now that the angels’ lair had been destroyed and any information contained within well and truly lost to her. But now that it seemed Spectre couldn’t find her, or was at least too preoccupied to, and this was her only chance without her guards before she’d have to return to the Palace with Ignis in tow. With Go trapped in hell, and with no guarantee he’d return until she managed to bring him back, then there was only one course of action left.

Aoi stood from the sill and went to put in her jewelry, to throw on a hood to shield her face. She’d leave a note, but there was no time for anything else. She’d have to go. If she’d only find answers by staring into the mouth of the dark- then she would face it head-on, without fear.


	23. XXII [What Do You Believe In?]

The strange world melted around him, and Go Onizuka saw something equally perplexing. The melted colors gave way to a mass of blue, to a soft sheen, almost silver near its backing. It reflected him an infinity- and endless line of mimicries. Go thought that this was what people meant when they said someone stared into their soul- just an endless line of mirrors, daring you to look for the reflection that differed. If he took a step, then his reflections stepped with him- and nothing grew any closer. Go frowned. That would be a problem- unlike, say, the Princess and her guardians, none of Go’s magic was projectile. If he couldn’t touch it, he wouldn’t be breaking the illusion.

Once he got back, Go thought, maybe it would be time to invest. If he was going to take on an angel, might as well be prepared as possible.

Go grinned at the thought and took a few more steps forward, trying to see if a greater movement had an effect. Whether the First King had worked with Hanoi or not, Ghost Girl had said it herself. That was a story of the past, now. What he could do was what was his duty- to protect Sol. Not just on a stage, but in the real world, against a real threat. He’d earned his title as Defender. It was time to earn it against an angel.

Go took a running leap towards his reflection, and, as expected, it did nothing save mirror him from a fixed distance away. He let his magic fly wild from him on a whim, hoping it wouldn’t rebound- and his reflections copied the motion of his punch, albeit hollowly. Go frowned. So brute force wasn’t going to get him out of this situation, obviously.

It was a good thing he was more than just a fighter, then. Go thought- if looking at the mirror had gotten him into this mess, then there was a good chance that the mirror would be the key to getting him out. If he couldn’t fight it, and if he assumed that he wasn't the intended target, then...

Go touched his earring again, trying to recall just what appearance he needed. It didn’t take him long- Ghost Girl herself had familiar enough- well shorter and smaller than he himself, with longer hair and sharper eyes. Around him, his reflections began to waver, to crumble in on themselves before trying to build themselves back up, just flashes of color and shape- more lavender and pink than the yellows and golds he preferred. He was about to finish the illusion, then stopped- in the reflections he had seen Ghost Girl, but not as she was to him. She’d been wearing that tattered white wedding dress.

His memory wasn’t good enough to get the tatters exactly, but it seemed that his mental image of them was sufficient- abruptly did all the reflections around him wail- a terrible, inhuman sound that only unnerved Go all the more coming out of that hollow reflection of Ghost Girl- and as soon as they started they stopped, vanished down to shards of mirror and glass like stardust, glinting silver against the void.

He thought he caught a flicker of Ghost Girl’s back and reached out for it, intent on returning himself to wherever she still was, hoping that she hadn’t gotten lost in the illusions as well- but his fingers slid right through her, and the entire world before him shattered. Fragments of the glittering world slipped through his fingers like shards of soft glass, and his stomach bottomed out as if he was falling- though he was certain he was standing still- or at least that his feet were on what passed as ground.

As the fragments fell across his fingers, splayed out across his palm and melting down like water droplets, rolling silver off his skin, he saw in them pieces of memory. The construction of a ring, a ceremonial circuit drawn across its bottom. A group of distant children, running gleeful through the grass, as a group of hazy faces watched on from the top of a hill. A burning sensation, the dark press of hell. A hand, reaching out for another. A soul, torn and snatched away through bloody fingers.

The Princess, standing tall with crown on her head and wings on her back- false but beautiful, the work of a master artisan. The man Ghost Girl had called Akira, standing amongst a group of men and women that Go didn’t know, and didn’t have time to look at any closer before the image was gone with another set of rolling drops.

One after another the shards fell, and one after another Go saw the strange images, dancing through the glassy water, falling too fast for him to make sense of anything other than color and brief moments of sensation.

Finally, as the last of the shards slipped through his fingers, Ghost Girl’s voice, ringing out shallow and shaking-

_Have we made a terrible mistake?_

* * *

“Oh,” said Ghost Girl, her voice a quiet, amused curl like a cat’s purr, “You came back for me.”

She reached a teasing hand out through the bars to try and pet one of Akira’s hounds. It snapped at her fingers, and she drew them quickly back, just out of the hound’s reach. The hound growled at her, but Ghost Girl just waved a chiding finger at it.

Akira blinked down at her. He didn’t seem amused. “That isn’t a risk you want to be taking.”

“Shouldn’t I? Hellhounds do love me, you know. They make brilliant hunting dogs. But more importantly... What did you do with Ai? The Ignis?” Ghost Girl asked as she pulled her hand back through the bars, only to drop it down closer to the hellhound’s nose.

Akira’s reply was stiff and dismissive. “What needed to be done. I won’t answer such meaningless questions from you.”

“Meaning it’s somewhere that someone even not of royal blood could find it?” Ghost Girl smiled, and Akira recoiled. She continued, smile a bit smug as she continued to taunt the hellhound on the other side of the cell, “You forget how well I know this place, Akira. This isn’t a place you go forgetting, no matter how many years it’s been.”

“How do you know my name?”

Ghost Girl hummed and pulled her hand back, beginning to braid a long strand of her hair with deft fingers. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. It all sounds rather fantastical in this day and age.”

“I may believe more than you think.” Akira’s voice was serious- as if he truly meant that he might listen to Ghost Girl’s stories. Ghost Girl met his gaze with lidded eyes and a mischievous smile.

“Tell me,” said Ghost Girl, “how much do you believe in past lives?”

“A children’s story. Superstitions from the witches of Vrains. Souls might stay on the same plane of existence, but returning it the world of the living isn’t something that can be done. If it could, then why would we have no record of it? Surely people would find their favored pets again. Surely great geniuses would appear again. Magic can only take so many forms. History would show us the pattern.” Akira’s reply was long and matter of fact. It seemed he thought he had Ghost Girl cornered- but the woman only hummed.

“I think you forget that history isn’t written by the masses. We relegate the most important stories of our past to storybooks written by the winners. The Angels have destroyed information they haven’t been pleased with in the past. Should I remind you that’s how the second war game began?”

The second war game. By all accounts, that had been a rousing success. The reigning Queen had won handily, defending the second Ignis under the protection of Sol, and Hanoi’s leader- Revolver, had been cast handily down into hell.

Akira frowned, and took a very deliberate step towards the bars, pulling himself up to his full height again- as if he hadn’t been already, and as if the whole maneuver didn’t display just how caught off-guard he’d been by the suggestion in the first place. “But that isn’t evidence. No matter how strong the oral history of your mothers might be, there’s no place for rumors in something as critical as this.”

“You’re a very hard sell, aren’t you? Then what about souls? If you shatter one,” Ghost Girl said, her voice taking on an uncharacteristically dark tone, “do you know what happens?”

“You’re speaking in impossibilities,” said Akira, sharply. His hand went to rest on the fur of one of his hellhounds. The hound itself didn’t react, just stared intently at Ghost Girl as she dropped her hand from the small braid in her hair, resting them on the bars.

“Am I really? Tell me, Akira. Haven’t you noticed the inconsistencies? And the strange things that are explained away by burned up texts and the attacks of the angels?” Again did Ghost Girl pause, and when Akira said nothing to defend himself, she continued- “Don’t you have dreams?”

Something in Akira’s manner snapped- it became quite brisk, suddenly, as if those words had crossed a line. He said, sharply, “I won’t speak with a witch who insists on using words as tricks. There are other ways of obtaining information.”

He turned on his heel, but didn’t get so far as a step- he was almost tripped by his own hellhound, whose gaze was still fixated firmly on Ghost Girl. In the moment he regained his balance, Ghost Girl held her hand through the bars again, right before the hound. She called, softly- “Acute.”

“What are you-” Akira began, ready to pull his hound back by the scruff, if need be- but it lunged forwards before he could stop it, straight at Ghost Girl- and then nuzzled up to Ghost Girl’s open palm. She scratched beneath his bony ears, in the spot Acute clearly liked given his soft whine. He licked the inside of her wrist, and Ghost Girl made a soft expression, almost a laugh. She said to Akira- “People would find their beloved pets again… Isn’t that what you said?”

“That’s…” said Akira, then turned away, calling Acute back to his side with a snap of his fingers. The hound didn’t respond immediately, instead sparing Ghost Girl one final nudge before returning to Akira’s side. “We’ll speak later.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Ghost Girl called as Akira turned away.  In the hall, Hayami scribbled a frantic note, transcribing the conversation as quickly and clearly as she could while Bella sat on her shoulder, keeping careful watch of the other direction. The moment their conversation seemed through, Hayami scurried away, bare feet silent against the floor and Bella silent in the air, carrying the folded square up and away before Hayami.

Hayami quickly reached the top of the staircase, well ahead of the precise click of Akira’s shoes, and quickly slipped on her own to vanish down a side hall. If anyone asked, she’d say she was on her way to the kitchens for an evening meal.

She just hoped that the information would reach Aoi quickly- that she’d reach the same conclusions Hayami had, just from that brief conversation- and that no matter what she did, that the Princess wouldn’t return to the Palace. She would no longer find allies here.

* * *

Go was well and truly alone. Ghost Girl had vanished, as had the mirrors. Hell stretched on an endless expanse before him, though Go knew not the path to take. He wouldn’t admit to missing Ghost Girl’s easy guidance, but this was an area a bit out of his depth, even with all his readings on the other worlds he’d been doing courtesy of his book-hunting for the Princess.

Not as if he would let that stop him. When he tried to step forwards, no new path rose up from the void for him- but when he glanced over the edge, he caught sight of a flat plain not far below him. It reminded him vaguely of something he’d seen before, though he couldn’t remember quite what. An illustration, perhaps, the way it seemed to be drawn in ink and splashes of faded color, like an old woodblock print.

Standing would get him nowhere- so Go leapt. He landed hard but easy on his feet, using the magic of his charms to brace himself against the impact. It seemed here that he didn’t gain as much momentum as falling on earth, anyway. The golden strands of grass only came up to about his waist, which meant he had a clear view over the entirely of the plain. It was a vast expanse- from above it had seemed such a small patch, but now that he was inside it, it seemed to stretch on forever, past even what passed for the horizon in the black void of hell’s skies.

In the field he could hear the phantom cries of children, though he could see none amongst the long, waving grass. They were not cries of pain- rather shrieks of laughter, excited yells of children playing games and enjoying themselves. Go smiled instinctive at the sound, but it was an almost hollow thought that dredged up his worries about the orphanage again. That yell- that cry for help- had sounded exactly like Makoto. If something happened at the orphanage while Go was powerless to stop it…

He clenched his fists, and started cutting himself a path through the field, the golden stalks of grass bending under his feet. He did not find any children, and eventually Go realized that they must have been like what he’d seen in the mirrors. Just phantoms of something else, somewhere else- a place he couldn’t touch. Like the memory. It bothered him impossibly much. Something about it hadn’t been right- hadn’t lined up with what was supposed to be fact. He’d have to ask the Princess about it.

From somewhere further down in the field called a call, gentle and high.

 _“Children,”_ came the chiding voice, but it was undermined with its own fondness. The children laughed, and the voice sighed. “Please be careful! If one of you gets hurt, then the rest of you will have to come in, too.”

Four childish voices yelled back various affirmations; Go couldn’t distinguish one voice from another- unlike the children of the orphanage he was familiar with, this group was just a muddle of mostly-unintelligible sound.

“No one’s gonna get hurt,” said a voice, quietly, sure of it. Like the future was as fact they could rattle off the top of their head. It was childish as all the rest, though. Only a child could be convinced of such impossibilities.

“But what if someone does?” A quieter voice, suddenly worried. A whisper that was too loud in the low rustle of the wind over the grass, the soft shifting of it.

The first voice just doubled down on their statement- “No one’s gonna get hurt.”

And then the voices were gone entirely, their conversation blown away by the breeze, carrying the phantom children entirely. The golden field began to fall away, black encroaching onwards from the horizon and slowly eating away at the world with red like veins pulsing through the air. Go had no choice but to watch it surround him from every direction. A new presence came to dominate over the space, and Go instinctively began to search for it- but like the phantoms, saw nothing.

“The flashbacks are proceeding as planned,” said the voice, clipped and matter of fact, but not without a certain reverence. Go glanced around the empty field, trying to understand just where the voice was coming from. Unlike the first voices, this seemed to come from much closer a distance. And it seemed to Go much more real- as if the tone of the voice itself held some sort of physical weight in the otherwise empty space.

There was another strange wave of that red energy, floating and skirting through the edges of the field. Go glanced around, figuring that if he could find the source, he’d find what he was looking for and then some. Meanwhile, it spoke again- “It won’t be much longer. I’m sure… Yes. Yes.”

The red streaks through the air began to waver and change, elongating slightly, sharpening. If they were forming words of some sort, then Go certainly didn’t know how to interpret them. Beneath his feet, the last of the field crumbled away. When he blinked, the world before him had been reborn anew.

It wasn’t a pleasant sight. If Go could ascribe the word _hell_ to anything, then he’d choose the sight before him. The world was black as the void, and what remained was minimal but grotesque- directly before him there stood a mountain of corpses, drawn up into a mockery of a throne. And directly atop that throne was...

Go knew not what it was. He’d say that it resembled a beating heart, or that perhaps it was similar to some sort of organs, despite looking almost a perfect sphere. It didn’t pulse, but the red veins certainly extended from it.

And standing before it was a single figure, dressed in mask and cape and standing with back straight as he addressed it, words too distorted for Go to make out- or perhaps they were in another language entirely. Go knew not what the angels spoke, and cared not enough to ask. Go knew that face- or rather, he knew that mask, the eyes gleaming inhuman and reddish-gold behind the clear surface of it. It was the very one that had thrown him down in the ring, and the one that had laid down the claim for the Ignis at the Palace. _Revolver_.

But why was he here, Go wondered, and who was he talking to? Or what? Go figured that there were only two ways to find out, one that was much more direct than the other. He wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to pull it off- but he would be nothing if he didn’t believe in himself now, not when he’d sworn to protect the city against the Angels. Given the chance to go after one of their leaders, he couldn’t in good consciousness pass it up.

“Hey!” Go yelled, and immediately Revolver’s attention slid towards him- slid, catlike and faintly amused, rather than a snap. Even from this distance, Go could tell there was a smirk curling across his lips. Go lifted his head and stalked towards Revolver who’d yet to draw that strange weapon of his, letting his magic pour into his pendant. If he was going to do this, then he’d need every bit of magic he could get.

“Do you think that you can challenge me?” The invitation was all but drawled; obviously not meant to be anything more than a warning. Go had yet to sense even the slightest bit of magic from Revolver.

Go cracked his knuckles- if Revolver’s weapon was ranged like magic, then all he’d have to do was draw in close. And if his actual magic was just made of illusions and mirrors, then he’d have a hell of a time when he realized that Go was adept at fighting in the dark. The space between them was closing rapidly; the sphere at their side was an overwhelming shadow over their heads that cast them half in sickly red light. One of Revolver’s eyes appeared to turn the same bloody color, and Go roared as he broke into a run, ready to strike at Revolver.

In response Revolver just lifted a hand. Go braced himself for the mirrors, but none arose- instead his fist connected with Revolver’s open hand. It was like punching through a brick wall, Go thought, except brick _gave_. Revolver spared just a second to laugh at him- and then that weapon of his was in his hand, leveled straight as Go’s chest. Go had just a moment to think that he’d made a mistake in his strategy- and then the world went black to the click of a trigger and blast of a shot.


	24. XXIII [Author Unknown]

Aoi had wanted to retrieve the manuscript Go had promised her as quickly as possible- it had taken a bit of necessary rushing through Naoki’s small house in preparation and a note written in as close as Aoi could reasonably allow her handwriting to get to a scribble. She’d known that it would take more of her than she expected, especially if the Royal Guard was out in force as the encounter that the reporters had with them was going to be typical. And she knew that, out of everything that she’d done, attacking her own guard would be unforgivable. It would throw things into an even greater chaos if the news spread, and so she’d have to do it inconspicuously, and preferably alone.

She knew all of that- had explained it in a harsh whisper and a severe expression on her face, the one she’d been told to use when ordering someone sent down to the dungeons. And yet none of that explained how she’d ended up _here_. That was to say, running down the sloped street to the docks along the outer wall of the city, dodging the Royal Guard shouting out in rhythmic time behind them, fleeing the occasional pulse of magic that tore its way past Aoi and her ragtag entourage as they fled, trying to get out of sight and lose their tails.

Aoi ducked down low as she sensed a blast of magic headed towards her head, barking out a sharp- _“Duck”_ to Naoki running beside her. Naoki ducked, and Yamamoto and Saito did for good measure, though Aoi thought that they were just wasting their energy- the sterile magic of the royal guard she could sense nowhere near them. The concentrated bolts of it that ran straight over Aoi’s lowered head, however, bristling like lightning and making her hair stand on end was another matter.

“We need to get rid of them, Boss!” Saito said. Yamamoto heaved out a few heavy breaths before he could respond with what they were all thinking.

“Like what?”

The answer to that came from Aoi’s other side.

“I can do this,” Naoki said, then punched his knuckles together with a hollow clank of the plated armor together. The earth beneath their feet began to shudder and rattle, and for a moment Aoi feared the worst- if a flashback hit now, then there would be nothing any of them could prepare for- but then she noticed Naoki’s grin. Aoi chanced a half-glance back over her shoulder as she heard the sound of clattering armor against the stone road. Sure enough, one by one their pursuers were hitting the ground, hit down hard by what looked to be some sort of shockwave, radiating out from a pulse that trailed from Naoki like a cape. It only lasted a moment longer, and then it vanished as the last of the guards hit the ground hard, tumbling until they were prone against the brick- unconscious, Aoi assumed.

“That charm,” Aoi said, thinking that she hadn’t seen another like it. Certainly not a trick she assumed that he used in the ring- or was even allowed to, for that matter.

“Family heirloom,” Naoki said with boastful pride, “My mom sent it to me from Vrains. But it’s only gonna last a second, so we should hurry!”

Aoi nodded, and the four of them together put on speed, bolting fast down the path and following Naoki’s lead down a sharp turn that brought them into a small courtyard- a crossroads of sorts that lacked distinguishing features other than a few potted plants set neatly outside the steps of a few corner store shops. The ocean wasn’t yet visible, their view blocked by the houses and the sweep of the hill itself, but the afternoon sun starting to sink down the sky was Aoi’s guidepoint as they slowed to a halt in the middle of the plaza.

“What do we do, Y-” Aoi broke Saito off with a quick, sharp hiss. Saito would have slapped a hand over his mouth, if he hadn’t been running, Aoi imagined. His face was practically stricken with embarrassment.

“Don’t give her away, come on!” Yamamoto hissed back, and Aoi shushed the both of them again- Naoki, at least, had the sense to stay silent. Aoi considered the options quickly- if she was with Kusanagi and Yusaku, then she’s suggest they split up, but it was hardly worth it. She was sure that the guard knew the signature of her magic, too. That left only one option. Together they’d have to lose the guard.

“What’s the shortest way down to the docks?” Aoi asked, and all three of them pointed in different directions. Saito and Yamamoto exchanged a glance, shrugged, then pointed in the same direction as Naoki- down a sloped, narrow path that seemed to cut straight down the last remaining bit of hill, given how steep its slope was.

“Then the second shortest?”

The three of them pointed in the direction Saito had originally chosen- a slightly more gentle-looking path to their left, rather than straight ahead. Aoi nodded, and remembered it carefully. She pulled a small, winglike charm from her pocket- it usually rested on a band on her upper arm, hidden away from sight, but it had hardly been the time to get dressed formally. She handed it up to Holly, then said- “And what’s shorter than the shortest direction?”

The three looked at her in confusion, and Aoi snapped her fingers- the charm in Holly’s hands burst into flames, though it didn’t hurt the guardian. The eyes of the crowd lit up in understanding, and they pointed straight through one of the buildings between the two paths. It was a risk, but one they’d have to take.

“Go,” she told Holly, “find the nearest deserted building and make a scene. As big as possible without hurting anyone or burning down too much property. I’ll make up for it later, so _go_.”

Holly flew off, and in the distance Aoi could hear the calling cards of the guard from one to the other, picking themselves up off the ground and resuming their chase.

“Let’s go,” Aoi said, and dashed off down the path Saito had chosen. The three of them followed her at haste. They’d hardly made it down and through the first of the curves down towards the ocean before the sound of a small explosion carried down to them, followed by the shouts of the guards. No footsteps seemed to follow them, and Aoi allowed herself a smile. She could still feel Holly’s presence vaguely around- though it was difficult to communicate with them over long distances, Holly was still close enough that when she told her to keep guard, Holly seemed to understand, flicking away before the connection between them simmered down into something that was just a vague feeling of resonance.

No more of the guard seemed to be chasing them, sufficiently diverted by the distraction they’d created- though the guard would soon find it hadn’t been angelic of origin, and that they hadn’t fled down that path, it bought them just enough time to make it down the slightly longer road that swept down to the warehouses. Aoi trusted her memory to serve her right as she pulled the pin from her hair and slipped it gently inside the lock, listening careful to the click of the mechanism as it slowly opened. Aoi pushed her way inside, breathing in the air that was somehow vaguely stale, and nodded at what she found- a practice ring taking up most of the room, but with a small living area beside it, with a messy table and scattered shelves stacked high with books.

Aoi supposed she wouldn’t have expected much else from Go. She made straight for the living area, hoping to find something close by, and hoping desperately that Go hadn’t, for some reason, been carrying the manuscript with him.

Yamamoto closed the door behind them all, and the four of them fanned out around the area, poking and prodding at the various belongings of one Go Onizuka. Aoi thought, vaguely, that she’d probably have to apologize later for letting so many people pry through his things. She got the feeling that he’d understand, though, given the circumstances.

“So where do we start looking?” Yamamoto asked, and Aoi glanced around- she seriously doubted that Go would keep anything so precious around his practice equipment, given that his sport wasn’t exactly _kind_ to the surroundings, which meant that the living area was definitely the best choice- but as to where within, she had no idea where to even so much as start.

“He wouldn’t keep them in the open,” Aoi replied, “he’s smarter than that. If the Royal Guard ever found out about how many banned texts he was distributing, then there would be no status in the world that could save him from punishment.”

Aoi knew that full well- thinking of the scoldings she’d received, the missed meals, the corrective lessons from the collective force of her tutors whenever she’d been caught reading something she wasn’t allowed, whenever she’d tried to use her magic in a way that the Council hadn’t approved. If even a Princess could be struck, then no fame would save a Defender.

“Why is Onizuka doing this kinda work anyway?” Naoki asked, tapping his covered knuckles against the wall with the hollow sound of metal. “He’s like, the biggest star of the city.”

“You didn’t know?” Aoi asked, turning to him, just before she could open the door to the closet. She’d assumed that it was rather common knowledge- even if the Royal Guard had wanted to do something about it, his status alone would have protected him. Granted, thought Aoi, they’d probably known only that he distributed books of magic. Not the details contained within.

“Uh, was I supposed to?” Naoki asked. Aoi blinked- perhaps it was more secretive than she’d assumed.

“I… I guess not,” she replied, just as Yamamoto glanced over at them from the shelves.

“What, you didn’t know? That was our hottest scoop! City Star Go Onizuka sold banned books to save the orphanage of his youth!!”

“We never published that one,” Saito replied, poking his head out around the other side of the bookshelf, “because we didn’t want him to get in any trouble.”

Aoi was grateful that they hadn’t. She imagined that Onizuka was, as well. She nodded in their direction as Naoki muttered to himself, seemingly quite dismayed at being the last to know something about his hero. The two of them nodded, back, and Aoi finally opened the closet door. What was behind, Aoi found, was, disappointingly enough, just a closet, stacked with a few jackets on shallow hanging racks and various cleaning supplies, along with a rickety stool, clearly unused. Though she felt a bit foolish, she pushed aside the jackets, looking for some sign of a vault or a safe, but in the end found nothing and ducked back out of the closet.

She quickly surveyed the room again as she did- there was a door on the other side of the practice area, slightly ajar, that Aoi assumed must have led to the washroom. Given how unlikely that was, she thought she’d save that for last.

“Um, Your Highness,” said Saito, hands full of a pile of books stacked preposterously tall, “what are you looking for, exactly?”

Aoi realized that they had, in fact, gone looking without asking her what she was looking for. She resisted the urge to sigh- they had come along with the intention of being helpful, after all. Besides. She should have thought to tell them exactly what the details were in the first place. “I’m looking for a manuscript. It’s old, and chances are it’ll be handwritten. I’m not sure what it’s called, but it’s definitely not something that’s just going to be left out in the open.” Aoi huffed, then added- “And chances are, it’s illegal knowledge. That should narrow it down quite a bit.”

“You don’t know the title?” Yamamoto asked, glancing at the shelves, pulling a book out at random, then shrugging, then shoving it back on the shelf indelicately. Aoi winced at the treatment and shook her head, just a slight motion.

“No. Go was supposed to tell me, but… There were other circumstances. We never had the time to meet.” Aoi turned her attention to the table. Sitting atop it were various notes- most of them memos about his upcoming matches, a few of them schedule tables. Aoi squinted down as she shuffled through them, trying to judge if there was anything immediately relevant in the mess of them. Buried at the bottom was a key, and for a moment she was hopeful- but Aoi soon realized that it was just for the box he kept on the side of the desk, which was full of small coins and already left open, anyway. Aoi glanced at it and sighed- so were the ways of someone sure that they could protect themselves, she supposed. In truth, she was probably the same.

Just as she was finishing, turning up with empty hands, Saito screeched from one corner of the room, and Aoi’s head shot up in alarm as there was a clatter, almost sure that they’d been attacked- but instead they were just met with the sight of Yamamoto on the ground, covered in a pile of books as Saito apologized profusely from the stepladder. Aoi sighed. Better than being attacked, she supposed.

“Hey,” Yamamoto said, grabbing one of the books off his chest and pushing himself back to his feet, “is it this?”

Yamamoto brought the manuscript over and plopped it into Aoi’s waiting hand. It was certainly different from the others that seemed to be on the shelf. It wasn’t bound in a hard cover, for one, instead stitched tightly together with thread. Across its front were written simply the characters for _summoning_ , which was vague but, Aoi thought, skimming through the first few pages, certainly indicative of what was left inside. Which only brought up another question- only Aoi and some of the Zaizens before her had access to summoning magic. And if that was the case, _then_ _who exactly wrote this book?_

Aoi flipped through, searching for a name at the end- or a name anywhere, really. The handwriting was neat and precise, meaning it was likely someone associated with the royal family- there were customary quirks that weren’t even close to being hidden. What words the common people spelled out in phonetics the royal houses still used characters for. Aoi thought the whole thing rather troublesome, really, but it narrowed down her list of suspects significantly. Though she wasn’t sure exactly how much good that would do her. The manuscript was clearly old; a few hundred years old at the earliest. Whoever she could track down was likely dead- but she did, Aoi thought with a sudden rush of excitement, now know a gravekeeper. Perhaps there was some sort of destiny about this all indeed. That thought in mind, Aoi flipped through to the last few pages of the book.

 _To summon a soul up from another world, there are a few requirements. First- that soul must either be bound to or part of the summoner’s soul. Tribute must be placed if that soul does not have a body to return to. For those that do, a more complex summoning is required_.

Aoi flipped the next page, but it was left blank. She frowned- but it wasn’t as if the pages had been torn out. There simply was no more left to the book. It had clearly been the intent of the original author to go on. And yet nothing remained. Aoi tried holding the pages up to the light streaming in through the high windows, orange and dusty, but if she hoped to see some sort of code in hidden ink, there was no sign of anything but a bit of wear and tear on the inner pages.

But it was at least a hint. If she could bring back Go the same way she summoned up her guardians, then perhaps there would be something she could do. She tugged gently on her connection to Holly, summoning the guardian back to her side from patrolling the area around warehouses. Aoi hoped that they’d be safe enough for now.

Naoki, meanwhile, let out a loud gasp from the other side of the room, where he’d been tapping on bricks close to one of the gaps between the bookshelves. Aoi had long since toned out the obnoxious noise- but when she looked up at Naoki, a brick had sunk into the wall. Naoki, realizing he had everyone’s attention, held up his hands in mock surrender. “Uh? I think I found something!”

Aoi hurried over to him, and the two reporters followed, leaving the last few sets of books still scattered about the ground. But Aoi hardly thought it mattered. Naoki stepped aside and let Aoi peer through the hole that he’d accidentally created in the wall. And sure enough, there was a small study that Aoi could make out inside as she peered through the murky gloom of the unlit, windowless room. But surely there was a way in- Aoi pulled back slightly from the wall, thinking that there might have been a door behind the bookshelves- but those had no back, and you could see straight back to the brick wall. And Aoi imagined that Go certainly didn’t go around breaking down and patching up a brick wall every time he wanted to read a book.

Aoi stepped back, and supposed that they could just break down the entire wall- but before she could, Holly flew into the room from one of the open high windows, blowing straight past Aoi and fluttering inside the dark room.

“What can you see?” she called inside, and her guardian landed on the ground. There was a rug over the ground, but Holly flew a small circle around a small part of it, and Aoi wondered- but there was one obvious conclusion. “A trapdoor?”

Naoki had wandered off towards the practice equipment when Aoi had taken his place, and it was only just then that she realized he couldn’t be seen. She slowly craned her head over the empty warehouse, then saw that the red drapes covering the raised area of the ring had been lifted, revealing the small, dark crawlspace underneath. Aoi went over towards it quickly, and was greeted with the sound of a pleased huff and the sound of something popping loose. She crouched down, and was met with Naoki’s head, face curled in a proud grin. “Looking for a trapdoor?”

Aoi returned his grin, and that just made Naoki light up more. “Good job. And thank you.”

Naoki shuffled aside in the crawlspace to let Aoi through, and showed her the way to the trapdoor, urging her carefully down with that bright grin still in his voice. It was infectious- Aoi found herself smiling too as she made her way down the surprisingly wide corridor, one hand on the wall in the darkness. The other three shuffled along behind her, and Aoi thought that this must have been part of a sewer next to both ladders she could see bricks and cement layers, clearly blocking this section of the tunnel off from the rest. It was short, and so Aoi let Naoki take the lead again, letting him climb the ladder first and pop the other trapdoor off before following him up. He offered her a kind hand, and thought Aoi didn’t need it, she took it. It felt to her vaguely as if she was escaping from the palace again, going on an escapade from the stifling weight of the mystery of it all.

It was kind of a nice change to have real allies in it all, even if they’d probably end up going their separate ways, after this. It called out to the part of her that loved freedom, for the rush of the wind in her hair like how she’d been in her dreams.

But it was no time to hesitate, lost in memories and daydreams. Aoi let Naoki pull her into the small inner chamber and turned a small circle around it, looking to Holly for guidance- but the fae only landed on her shoulder and trilled uncertainly. Of course, Aoi thought- she couldn’t expect her guardian to know that.

Saito pulled Yamamoto up the last of the ladder, and Aoi slipped away towards the bookshelves, hoping to look at those herself and avoid another shower of manuscripts- especially since these looked much rarer than the mostly basic books Go kept outside. Naoki followed her, a lightness in his step, and Aoi slowly began to scan the titles. There were no noises in the small room save a few shuffles of paper where Saito and Yamamoto were looking through what was out on the table, or where Aoi or Naoki picked out the occasional manuscript to look through. Nor was there light, save the dim patch that filtered in from the now-missing brick. Aoi thought they’d have to make sure to put that back before they left.

Eventually, they made it all the way through the shelves, and when Aoi glanced back, she deduced that Yamamoto and Saito had largely been reduced to shuffling through the same few stacks of paper, too nervous to touch anything else.

Aoi bit her lip, worried it between her teeth. She was hardly supposed to, but Aoi thought that she could forget her station just a moment for the sake of something above them all. 

“What about this?” Naoki asked, pointing to a small box set on a chair beneath the table. Aoi glanced down at it, then swiftly crossed the room to snatch it up. She frowned- the box was iron, or steel- she wasn’t sure, exactly, but it had no opening and no latch. When she picked it up it was surprisingly light, and she could feel clearly that there was something inside it.

“Alchemy?” she said aloud. It was the only explanation for how such a box could have been made. Aoi frowned down at it- she’d learned much about magic, but alchemy was a rather lost art. Doctors used it for their potions and poultices much like witches, but most of the knowledge had been lost hundreds of years ago, the second time that the angels had descended. Anyone who could have made it must certainly have been a talented practitioner- and while Aoi didn’t doubt Go’s ability, hse certainly doubted that the man had the time or supplies to both entertain, watch the children in the streets, _and_ learn what was by all means a rare, time-intensive art.

“We can’t risk damaging the document inside,” Aoi said, again mostly to herself. If it was truly something to do with the Angels, or the Sentinel, or _anything_ that Aoi didn’t already know- even her own magic was as good as a mystery to her, now- she’d take it. She needed it, desperately.

“Can you open it with magic?” Naoki asked, and Aoi turned the box over in her hands. She supposed that it couldn’t hurt to try.She let her magic well in her palms, like activating one of the charms she wore as rings, trying to make it rise and purge the box from its contents. She certainly felt some sort of reaction, but she wasn’t sure exactly what it was, and it certainly wasn’t making the box dissolve. Aoi frowned, staring down at it. There _had_ been a reaction; she was sure of it. If that magic hadn’t been enough- then she just needed more.

She tried pulling for something else- that hint of magic that ran deeper, that ran instinctive and free and had flit and and out of her grasp for as long as she could remember. _I should be stronger than this_ , Aoi thought, remembering the way she’d felt a thousand times over- and grabbed hold of it. The box in her hands crumbled beneath the force of the magic, a sudden surge that burned its way through Aoi’s body, from that same somewhere unknown that had touched her in the angel’s hideout.

She stopped it just as the last of the box burned away, shoving the magic back from where it had come. That, Aoi thought, breathing hard, had been almost too much. That hadn’t felt like her magic- except for how it had. Exactly so- just too much of it, a roiling wave that couldn’t be stopped.  

“Uh, are you okay, Your Highness?” asked Saito, and Aoi nodded, not quite trusting her voice to come out steady while still feigning as if she wasn’t trying to catch her breath. Instead Aoi quickly opened the folded-up manuscript, trying to hide the way that her hands were still shaking slightly, even though the rush had left her. It was an old document, and when she smoothed out the crinkles in it from its folding it almost threatened to crumble apart under her fingertips. If the alchemy that had contained it had been any less potent, Aoi supposed that it really might have. But as it was, the document withstood her treatment of it and she quickly began to scan the lines of text, written vertical in long, purposeful lines of handwriting. The ink was faded, but nowhere near illegible- Aoi’s breath caught in her throat when she read the first word. _Sentinel_. The rest of the line- the title- stole even her pulse from her, skipping a beat in her chest, freezing her cold with anticipation.

 _Sentinels and their Creation_.

“Is this is?” Naoki said, trying to peer over her shoulder but failing- there simply wasn’t enough room. Aoi angled the paper closer towards her, and her stomach began to turn as she skimmed the text. This wasn’t the sort of information that should be making its way into the presence of outsiders, no matter how good an ally Aoi thought they might become.

_Hanoi. Angels. Heaven, a place that sleeps in the deep canyons of the earth, far below where any mortal hand could hope to dig. The knowledge held by the First King Zaizen._

Finally she saw what she was looking for, about halfway through the text- the truth of the Sentinels. Aoi held her breath, though she didn’t quite realize that was what she was doing- anxious for her answer, she forgot all else.

 _This is what I’ve gathered from the records I’ve found: Sentinels are dead husks, bodies that move with souls removed and destroyed. Destroyed souls are likely converted to magic and stored inside-_ Aoi almost gagged. If this was the truth… If this was the truth, then…

Aoi’s gaze glanced down to the very end of the document, searching for the final remarks from the yet unnamed witch that had authored it. She knew that her face must have gone pale, and knew that her silence was only making the three surrounding her nervous- but she couldn’t break it with even so much as a gasp. The chill that grasped her then was nothing compared to any other impulse she had- to run, to fight, to devour every secret the document held, to tear it to shreds and dismiss it as slander. Because the name at the end of the document...

Aoi knew this name, knew it well. The characters were faded and old, but unmistakable- written down at the bottom of the research notes was a single family name- _Kusanagi._


	25. XXIV [Forbidden Words]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I had no energy on the last two days of vacation because my idea of "vacation" is "walk 20km around the city to save money on trains and bus fare EVERY DAY" so it... caught up to me... here's three chapters though!!

“Kusanagi,” Aoi repeated, as if the name written on the page would change, “Kusanagi.”

“Huh?” said Naoki immediately after, “Like that guy hanging out with Yusaku? The one who’s fighting the angels?”

Aoi nodded slowly, taking in the information again. _Sentinels are emotionless, thoughtless beings, controlled by the orders of a master. They are shells of human beings whose souls have been separated from their body. Souls stolen are entities made up of pure magic. Someone has the art of instilling them into charms._

Reading it a second time didn’t help any. Aoi wanted to rip the charms straight off her body- her earrings weighed down her head, the hairpin jabbed into her skull, the bangles on her wrists all but threatened to fall off her hands. On her shoulder, Holly gently patted the skin of her shoulder, trying to console her sudden nausea. She glanced up at Naoki. The sight of him up in armor almost turned her stomach- she was glad she’d only eaten that little bit of fruit, this morning. _So this is what he meant,_ Aoi thought, remembering Spectre’s words. _This is the truth of the magic that’s been hidden from us._

Aoi needed to get this information somewhere, to someone. To Yusaku and Kusanagi, probably. But if they already knew, and if they’d kept the secret from her when she’d asked… Aoi bit her lip, fiddling with it. She wasn’t trying to draw blood, but knew she very well could. She believed that they were trying to fight against the angels. For now, that would have to be enough.

“That’s good then!” Naoki said, “we can take it right back to them, and stuff.”

Aoi nodded. She’d decided to trust them. Navigating royal affairs and court politics were one thing, one treacherous slope where one mistake could mean the end. This, perhaps, didn’t have to be. But before they could move to leave, after Aoi had just had time to fold up the envelope and place it gently inside a different, empty box on the table, intending to take it along, the air suddenly seemed to disappear from the room.

Everyone gasped in a collective breath, chills running up their spine. Magic pervaded the room, a disgusting taste in the back of Aoi’s throat that made her want to gag.

“This is a flashback!” Aoi forced herself to say against the feeling, and ushered the three of them behind her. There wasn’t enough time; Aoi could already feel the press of it upon them. But she wouldn’t let it take them- she didn’t know what hell would be like, nor did she have any intention of finding out. She couldn’t be stolen away now, not again.

“Princess?” she thought she heard, less a proper voice and more a ringing in her ears. She wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but she certainly knew that voice. She trusted it more than she did most. _Go?_

But before she could say it aloud, hell was upon them. Aoi held out her hands and pushed everything she had into her shields, trying terribly hard not to think of how they must have been made. Hell collided against her, the full force of it battering her down, trying to push her to her knees. Aoi knew not where the source was, just let the shields surround them, around the box Yamamoto had picked up from the table, keeping it close. The world around them fell away piece by piece- first the papers, then the books, then the table falling down into splinters and shatters as hell wove itself in through the cracks of them. And it came for her, too, eating away the blue magic of her shields bit by bit.

“Stay away!” Go’s voice again, shouting to her a useless warning. But the sound gave her strength, stoked the flames of her motivation like oil doused upon a kitchen flame.

“I won’t lose!” Aoi said, pushing back against the flashback with everything she had. Every bit of magic, everything dormant inside her, every rough edge and jagged piece of memory- she’d place it all on the line, here and now. Let the flashback take her, if that was what it came down to, but save everyone else.

Aoi faltered, pushed back on her feet across the stone floor. And then there was a hand on her back, cool, wide and propping her up. Aoi let the hand push her forwards, let her take a step against the weight of the flashback, forcing it back from the rip in reality from which it had come. Two more hands joined it as she threatened to stumble back again. She knew without turning back who it must have been.

Slowly, and with a strain that sent her heart pounding wild through her chest, beating hard against her ribs, burning a fire through her body, Aoi folded the flashback back from where it had come. The world came rushing back, bit by bit- the table reassembled itself, the books flew back page by page and knitted themselves back by the spine to rest back on the shelves. The red crack that sliced across the world slowly began to seal itself up as she pushed it shut with her magic, attacking it with the full force of what she had.

And then Aoi had a thought- a risky one, but a powerful one. She’d have no choice if she didn’t try. She was a Zaizen, after all, and damn anyone who tried to keep her from that. Aoi reached for what she’d always thought was a hole inside her, a space where something should have been and simply wasn’t. She reached into that hole, digging in with all her will, and kept digging, pulling until she’d finally come across something. It was the same thing she’d touched just a moment before, a magic she hadn’t been told of- a wellspring of power, a strange oasis that burned her as much as it soothed her with the assurance of strength.

Aoi seized it and dragged it up into herself, breath shaky as she forced that blue magic out from her and into the crack, demanding that it search out Go. On the other side of the border she could sense as the magic complied, as it shot out through the void of hell intent on its target. It was a strange feeling- like her bond with one of her guardians, but much, much stronger, and Aoi felt as it stretched thinner and thinner before something seized around it like a hand on her spine. Aoi shivered, but she recognized the presence. She wouldn’t be afraid. Aoi pulled it back, brining Go towards her with everything she could- but the magic was slipping away. Aoi felt the tug of it in the opposite direction, grit her teeth as it slowly peeled away from her, burning holes back into her heart, her lungs, branding sparks into her vision. Aoi took hold and demanded it to stay.

And in a moment- in the blink of an eye- Go was standing before her, on the other side of the crack in reality.

“Go!” Naoki yelled out from behind her, his hand still bracing her back as Aoi tried to step forwards, tried to make her voice come out, but the strain of the new magic meant all she could do was breathe.

“Don’t let Revolver come back,” Go said, “He’s probably causing all of these. Don’t let him come back. I’ll take him out now.”

Aoi shoved herself forwards, reaching out a hand through the fabric in reality, feeling something sizzle around her hand as she did. Go reached out for it, for despite his words even he had to be feeling some sort of burden for being trapped in hell- but in his hand, Aoi could see clearly some sort of paper. She reached for it, braced by Naoki’s forearm pressed against her back, holding her forwards against the force pressing them back, and she thought that if only she could take one more step, she’d have him-

His hand slipped through her fingers. She reached forwards, but found her hand reaching only thin air- whatever crack between the worlds the flashback had formed, it was gone in an instant, sealed up through the air, taking that cracking static and the sound of a gunshot back away with it. But before it could vanish completely- before it could seal itself back up and Go was lost to her again, Aoi reached into her pocket and threw the shard of mirror inside towards him. Holly raced after it, grabbing it just as the gap to the other world sealed itself entirely. Both of them vanished, but a soft hum hung in the air, Holly’s final reassurance to Aoi.

In the sudden absence of force, Aoi fell forwards onto the ground, tumbling silent to her knees as Naoki and the reporters behind her collapsed in a loud pile. She hardly noticed. Instead Aoi slammed her fist down against the tile- not hard enough to bruise, but just hard enough to sting. _Why aren’t I strong enough? Why do I keep failing?_

After a moment, Aoi picked herself up off the ground. She took a long breath, readied herself, and looked around the gathered three. She’d saved them. She’d protected herself, and them along with her. Go had given her a goal. It might break her contract, but if the Ignis was back in the city, then Aoi saw no reason why it already wasn’t null and void. She knew what to do. All that was left to do, Aoi thought, thinking of the spell set in the graveyard, was to do it. 

* * *

“So,” Revolver said, “you were saved. What an unfortunate coincidence. Unfortunately, it’s only prolonged your life a few moments.”

Go picked himself back up to his feet, staring down the barrel of the revolver. He could only check out of his peripherals, not daring to look away from Revolver, but he could tell that they’d changed location. No longer did the sphere hover over them, nor was the world around them quite so void. They were in, best as Go could tell, a graveyard. One that looked old and established; if Go had to guess, he’d say it was the royal cemetery outside the city limits.

“I won’t go down that easily.”

“Won’t you?” Revolver asked, and Go knew that he might have been made. It wasn’t in his nature to use shields the same way as the Princess did, and it wasn’t as if he had natural magic. He relied on what he could get his hands on, and nothing more. Go wouldn’t say he was outclassed. Not when he still had the will left to fight. Whether he did it in Sol or in hell, Go figured this was what he’d chosen.

There was a guardian behind Revolver. A small piece of something- or rather, Go said small, but it was almost the size of the guardian herself- that was reflective and bright. Go didn’t so much as acknowledge her as she crept up behind Revolver, flying silently closer. Instead he let his magic roar, trying to make it flood the area, to hide the presence of the Princess’ guardian entirely. From the way Revolver failed to react as she crept closer, staring only at Go as he made his slow advance, he thought that it might be working.

And then, suddenly, Revolver’s eyes narrowed. They looked somewhere just beyond Go, and he had to resist the urge to turn around and investigate what it was, just in case it had been a trap. He’d already ended up falling for one, and certainly didn’t have the patience for another. Magic shot from him like one of his bullets, aimed straight for the guardian coming up from behind him, but she dodged neatly around it in a neat swirl of wings. The mirror fragment in her grip shined with a soft light, a pale, pale blue.

“Don’t show me that,” Revolver snapped, power flailing from him wildly, trying to burn away the guardian entirely. But the guardian persisted. Revolver’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible. _Zaizen Aoi_ is-”

The guardian took the shard in her small hands, and with an impossible strength, stabbed the fragment into Revolver’s neck. He stepped back and snarled, hand coming up fast to bat her away and to cover the wound. The guardian drew out the mirror and darted away, just before the mirror shards dancing around his fingers could make contact.

Go only had one chance. If Aoi was helping him beat the odds, then he wasn’t going to complain, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste it. Go rushed forwards, readying himself to punch again. Revolver’s gaze shot up, meeting Go’s- but they weren’t that far apart, and by the time Revolver had control of himself again, it was too late. Go’s fist connected solidly with the side of Revolver’s head, sending him flying across the void. He slammed to the ground a little ways away, rolling hard, but he didn’t make so much as a hiss of pain. To be expected of an angel, Go supposed.

Revolver picked himself up from the ground, rolling up in a smooth motion to his feet, throwing the remaining mirror fragments straight at Go, who ducked neatly out of the way- in his haste, it seemed Revolver hadn’t had the time to properly aim.

“I don’t have time for you,” Revolver hissed, and his eyes began to flicker- away from that gold, unearthly glow of them, and back down towards eyes that looked almost human. They were cold as steel- and then with a flash of deep red they were golden again- and then Revolver was gone, vanished away by the red vines that wove their way in and out of the fabric of this reality. Go chased after him, then swore when it was obvious that he wasn’t catching up.

The guardian came down to float in front of him, still holding the shard of mirror out in front of her. There was no blood on it, and so it reflected him clearly- a blue eye, the hint of his hair- his own frustrated frown staring back at him.

“No chance you can get me out of here?” he asked her, but the guardian just trilled and shook her head. Go didn’t think so, but it was a disappointment nonetheless. “Then let’s keep searching.”

Whether that meant for the way out, or whether it meant for Revolver, Go wasn’t sure. But he’d take anything. The only thing he could rely on here was himself. If that was the way he had to fight- then that was what he’d have to embrace. 

* * *

Yusaku and Kusanagi wove their way down towards the warehouses late in the afternoon- it had been a day spent out in search for the angels, for the Ignis, presumably leeft somewhere in the city- and it had all been fruitless. They’d found the Princess had left a note, signed simply _Aoi,_ and they’d left quickly from the empty house towards the destination she had specified. Still, it all sent a strange sense of nostalgia though him. He’d sworn that he’d seen that note before. Not its contents, but the note itself, set down on a table, signed with the name _Aoi._

But even if he had, he supposed he wouldn’t know.

When they pushed their way through the unlocked door, they found two more people waiting there than they’d expected- Aoi and Naoki, whirling around with magic at the ready before two men- unfamiliar faces, but harmless ones, judging by the way Aoi and Naoki held protective arms out before them. The two relaxed at the sight of Yusaku and Kusanagi, ushering them in to the refurbished warehouse. The quirk of hope in Aoi’s voice was undeniable when she asked- “Did you make any progress?”

Yusaku and Kusanagi sent it crashing back to the ground with twin shakes of their heads. Aoi let out a long breath, but she didn’t wilt. She had a determination set to match their own, it seemed.

Kusanagi asked, folding his arms in thought, “So what should we do now?”

And that was the question, Yusaku thought. Simply going around in search of the angels had done nothing, and their leads were sparse- Yusaku had hoped that in their attack he’d be able to face them on even ground, and though the angels had certainly come away injured, that hadn’t been the answers he’d been seeking, nor had it been anything resembling a divine retribution.

“What leads do we have?” Aoi said, taking quick control of the situation. In her hands she gently clutched a manuscript, and Yusaku assumed that would be their first point- but instead, Aoi said- “We know that Go is in hell. And we know that the Ignis has returned to our world, but we don’t know where. And finally… We know that the angels are planning to summon Revolver back in our world in three day’s time, in the Royal Cemetery. Two of those leads we can chase. The last is going to take some time to track down. Unless you’ve brought us _any_ good news?”

Yusaku, reluctantly, shook his head. Kusanagi did the same beside him. Aoi let out a small breath, composed but not emotionless. They could sense that the Ignis was somewhere within the city, though neither of them knew where. It was no better than they’d been the night before. None of them needed the reminder that at this rate, the angels would outpace them.

“Then what should we do?” Naoki asked, and the room turned to him. He didn’t flinch away, just puffed up his chest looking proud. Behind him, the two men glanced at each other, then did the same, though it didn’t have quite the same effect.

“You don’t have to do this,” Yusaku said. None of them did. It was his and Kusanagi’s fight- and the Princess’ by proxy, as representative of her Kingdom. Go had gotten himself involved by proximity, but that didn’t mean anyone else had to. Against the angels, it was safer to wait out the tides.

Naoki glanced over at Aoi, then at Yusaku. He said, “I can’t fight the angels, probably. But I can still help. This is my city, too. I’m not letting some angels take it over because they think they can do whatever they want. We can show them! Probably.”

“We’ll help too,” said the reporters in unison. The mood in the room turned brilliantly determined. Yusaku turned to Aoi, but she was looking only at the newcomers. There was worry there, clear to see- but something else. Something much more fond, and something that Yusaku thought he should call _strength_. They exchanged nods, more potent than any contract or oath, then Aoi turned back to the room at large, taking up the mantle of leader easy as she’d been born into it.

“Then,” said Aoi, brandishing the manuscript in her hand like a pointer, “this will be our course of action. Bringing Go back from hell will be a priority. I don’t know what it’s like there, but I know that he’s encountered Revolver. Kusanagi. I’ll need to speak with you, but you may be able to handle it. I’ll assist you with the preparations here.”

Kusanagi nodded, and she turned to Yusaku. “Once the sun sets, you and I will head out to destroy the preparations for the summoning that the angels have already made. If we can set them back, and obtain the Ignis, then forcing them into a war game without their leader will be easy.”

Yusaku met her gaze and nodded. That was a job he was more than prepared to do. He thought of Revolver, their brief meeting in passing, and wondered what exactly it was that the angels seemed so desperately to want to convey to him. In the end, it hardly mattered- he wouldn’t listen to a word they said, unless it was about Jin, or a way to restore what he’d lost.

Finally, Aoi turned to Naoki and the reporters. “The three of you might have a little bit of a more difficult job. I want the three of you to continue doing what you have been. It’ll involve dodging the royal guard, but you _need_ to keep the people informed. Track down every trace of the flashbacks you can, and try to string together some sort of pattern. We’ve been lucky enough that they’ve all occurred in relatively deserted places, but that might not be the pattern that continues. Especially not after tonight.”

“Understood! We’ll report everything right up until the very end,” Yamamoto said with a wide grin, ambitious and determined.  

“We’ll head out right now!” Saito continued, “And stay out, even if it’s dangerous!”

“Even if it’s… dangerous,” Yamamoto repeated with slightly less enthusiasm but no less genuine sentiment. At least, Yusaku thought.

He said, serious to drive home his point- “Don’t do anything that’ll get yourselves killed. It’s not worth it. Not when it isn’t your fight.”

“Hey, hey!” Naoki said, though his voice was on the verge of trembling, “who do you think we are, huh? We have a home to protect. And we’re not gonna sit back and let history run its course, yeah? We’re going to help write it.”

“Be careful,” Yusaku said, and Naoki flashed him a grin that his his lingering unsteadiness.

“‘Course we will be. No one’s gonna die here.”

They stood together in a bright silence for a moment before Aoi thought fit to break it. She pulled a small page from where it had been tucked into the manuscript she was holding- a newer page, not one from the book itself, white where the book was yellow- and passed it onto Naoki. She said, “This is a list of things we’ll need tonight. I trust you might know where to find them?”

Naoki glanced down at the list, then showed it to the reporters, and the three of them muttered amongst themselves a moment, splitting up the list with minimal squabbling. Saito said, after glancing around- “Got it! We’ll bring it all back here as soon as we can.”

“Until the war game,” Aoi said, the greeting falling from her something solemn but strangely hopeful.

“Until the war game,” Naoki and the reporters echoed. Yusaku followed it just a beat behind, as did Kusanagi. The end was in sight. The battle lines were being drawn. All that remained, Yusaku thought, was to let it finally end.

The three of them scurried out the door, eager to get on their new tasks. That left just Kusanagi and Yusaku, then Aoi opposite them. She still fiddled with the manuscript in her hand, running her thumb gently over its yellowed surface. There was no point in letting the silence sit any longer.

Yusaku asked, “Does that have something to do with what you need for summoning Go?”

Aoi closed the distance between them, flipping it open to a deliberate page, then held it out to them- specifically, to Kusanagi. She said, voice just short of accusation- “You tell me. No one has ever taken down knowledge of Sentinels or souls. The angels have destroyed them before they could say so much as a word. And yet this manuscript was clearly written by someone with that knowledge, and protected. You know much more than you let on. So tell me.”

Yusaku glanced up at Kusanagi. Certainly the man always seemed to know more than he let on; Yusaku always considered it family matters and was more than happy not to pry. He trusted Kusanagi to tell him what was relevant while still allowing himself his privacy- that was the way it worked the other way around, and it was an arrangement that had suited them fine over the past two years.

But suddenly, Yusaku thought, his stray comments at scholars being silenced by the angels made much more sense.

Kusanagi looked up at Aoi. “Sorry. It’s not like I was especially trying to hide it from you, but… I figured that any of the research I didn’t have was destroyed. When your family tree’s a long line of people getting killed by the angels, and then your little brother gets taken by them, it doesn’t really make a pleasant picture.”

“You don’t think that’s perhaps why your little brother was targeted?” Aoi asked, doubtless thinking of bloodlines and magic and inherent knowledge that the longest of them seemed to possess. It certainly was what Yusaku was thinking of.

“That’s exactly why I think he was targeted,” Kusanagi replied, and the mood in the air plummeted, shattered cold at their feet. “But what’s important is that soon I can get him back. Let’s start with Go.”

Aoi nodded. “The problem is, we’ll need to pull him back both body and soul. Summoning a Zaizen guardian only requires a soul. Do you have any ideas of how we can accomplish that? I admit that I’m at a bit of a loss, but the sooner we can get him back, the better. Tonight would be ideal.”

Yusaku glanced up at Kusanagi, who thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think I do. We’ll have to set things up, first, and wait for them to come back with all the things you’re gathering, but I think I know how we can do this.” 

* * *

“We won’t be able to hold them back for much longer,” Kyoko said, very softly where she thought that Spectre could not hear. “And the way that Playmaker in particular is pursuing us… We’re running out of time. We’ve already been forced to wait centuries too long for this.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Aso replied, equally soft. They hadn’t yet sensed Spectre’s return- not that he had intended on returning in the first place. His search for the Princess and the Ignis had taken a brief stop in the stairwell of the disused pottery shop the angels had taken over as base, though not particularly by his own choice. He’d needed a moment to catch his breath, and ended up sitting on the very top step of it, hidden from view from the floor down below. His magic was racing, but contained well within him; he knew that there was no chance that the Angels below would sense him.

“I’m only saying them because we need to acknowledge them, and now. Aso. We’ve made nothing but mistakes, up until now. And every moment that this continues, we slide further and further back towards the mistakes that turned us into this in the first place.” Kyoko’s voice was not sharp, but neither was it kind. Her words held a heaviness to them that Spectre had never heard before, even in all his memories.

“Kyoko…”

“Please,” she said, “How many times have we let this happen? Twice has already been far too many. And now Ryoken...“

“We shouldn’t have kept the truth from him. That was our second mistake. One we’ve made too many times.” Aso’s voice was unbearably tired; Spectre had never heard it quite that worn, before, no matter how tired he’d been from using his magic. It was a side of himself he showed likely only to Kyoko; Spectre would have blinked away then and there if a sudden wave of unexpected tiredness hadn’t come over him then, too.

“The truth would destroy us, Aso. You know he’s too kind. Too loyal. If he finds out what really happened the last time, then-” Kyoko stopped abruptly as Spectre’s power suddenly flowed back up and over him like a wave he was powerless to stop, crashing up against his soul and all but announcing his presence to the two angels down below.

Spectre flicked away quickly, before he could be caught eavesdropping on their conversation. It was not something he was in the habit of doing in the first place. He was certain that the Iginis was held by the Council of Sol, now- that much was abundantly clear, when the rest of the city had produced no results. But where, and under what protections… He only had a little time left before things began to move again.

When Revolver returned, when Spectre summoned him back- then he’d already have the Ignis in hand. He wouldn’t disappoint. In this, he simply couldn’t.


	26. XXV [The Cursed Boy]

The old Royal Cemetery was as deserted as it had been the first time Yusaku had come here, determined to summon Kusanagi Jin back to his brother and having been met with a failure greater than he could have anticipated. Aoi beside him, creeping through the rows of graves with hunched shoulders and a tattered black cloak seemed equally on edge. They’d had to dodge much more of the Royal Guard than initially anticipated as they trawled the streets for Angels and Sentinels and Princesses alike, and it had set the last of their nerves on high alert.

Yusaku stood back and let her lead the way through the rows of graves, through the turning gazes of the statues seeming to bear judgement down upon them, judging them for their trespasses regardless of their reasons. They moved far into it, through what Yusaku assumed were the oldest reaches judging by how faded the dates engraved on the tombstones were. It made him a little nostalgic, in a strange way- he wouldn’t say he missed the graveyard, the extra holes in his memory, the sheer lack of _purpose_ in the existence he’d led. But no one had gotten hurt, back then. No one but himself.

A small fae came rushing up to them, another one of the Princess’ guardians, and delivered her a small note. Aoi’s expression went tight and pinched, but she whispered soft words of thanks to her guardian, then, and folded the note into her pocket before they continued. He didn’t bother to ask- whatever reply he’d receive he doubted would be truth.

“There,” Aoi said, pointing them towards a small clearing- a natural space, left open for the old gods to pass through at their leisure. Now it had been used for nothing of the sort. They moved towards it at haste, slipping out from between the graves and crossing the small path towards it- only for a blur to form before them, stopping them in their tracks and forcing them to duck their heads against the sudden rush of energy that poured out from the figure.

“I would stop what you plan to do. That’s a breach of our contract, Princess,” Spectre said, magic sparking about him, a dangerous sense that couldn’t yet be seen but could certainly be felt, the press of spring blossoms down into Yusaku’s lungs.

Aoi lifted her head and replied- “Hardly. Our contract was never about Revolver. It was about the Ignis, and about the Sentinel. Now that the Ignis has been returned to the city, I don't see any reason to let you have use of this summoning as you like.”

“Revolver is not who you seem to think he is,” Spectre replied, standing before them immovable. With his folded wings at his back, even spindly as they were, they seemed to make him stand so much larger than he really was.

“I know that he’s leader of the Angels,” Yusaku replied, “and that’s all I need to know.”

Yusaku called up his own magic and shredded the cloying scent of flowers in the air to shreds. His winds didn’t touch Aoi- and blew straight past Spectre, not so much as ruffling his hair or the petals of the blooms on his wings. Leaves fell from the tree behind them, fluttering to the ground over where Yusaku could faintly sense magic from the summoning circuit.

“You understand nothing,” Spectre replied, “That single-minded drive of yours will condemn the world to ruin. Your foolishness will be the only thing to blame.”

“My revenge isn’t foolish,” Yusaku said. If anything, he was a fool for not seeking out anything before. His answers. His solution. His revenge.

“It is,” Spectre hissed back, “the Angels are not the ones who you should blame for your misfortunes. You’ve already risen above simple humanity. You shouldn’t think to protest.”

Yusaku lunged; only Aoi’s hand sudden on his wrist stopped him from lashing out with magic. Opposite them, Spectre’s magic burst into life, a wall just as imposing as the boy himself. Aoi glanced over at Yusaku, then shook her head hard. A clear sign to wait. He returned it- then reluctantly backed down.

“Give me one reason,” Aoi said, “One good reason that I should let you summon Revolver.”

Yusaku glanced over at her, gaze scathing. She couldn’t seriously be considering this. He thought himself capable of forgiving much, even if not consciously- but that, Yusaku thought, would be a step too far.

“I could give you thousands,” Spectre replied, “but this is first and foremost. Revolver has no desire to hurt humanity.”

“We can’t trust a single word you say,” Yusaku retorted. Spectre’s expression turned pinched, the line of his mouth drawn. Yusaku glared, confident he’d caught Spectre in a lie he’d been too bold in telling. Yusaku remembered it clearly-  the moment Revolver fired that shot, and the moment it sank into Kusanagi, too slow to react even after the ultimatum had been given.

But Spectre didn’t back down. If anything, he only grew more certain, and Yusaku braced himself, knowing he wouldn’t like whatever came next.

“Then,” Spectre said, “I presume you’ll believe me if I show you a memory?”

They had no time to refute, to try and deny his offer- because the breath they took before their denial drowned them in the scent of cherry blossoms, and the memory took them all away. 

* * *

This was the story of a nameless age.

Once upon a time, there lived a young boy. He was the son of a witch, a great and powerful woman whose name was spoken reverent in the great cities of Vrains from which she’d fled. The witch settled in a small cabin on a steep mountain just beyond the border of Vrains and Sol. But the villagers had grown scared of the witch, of the strange experiments they saw her conducting when hunters went up into the mountains. Something about her, they said, was strange. Something about her, they said, just wasn’t right.

One day, a group of villagers had enough of living in fear. They went right up the mountain and took the witch from her home. She lived beside a great and beautiful tree, one that had been growing for hundreds upon hundreds of years. It was older than even the village. They tied the witch to the tree, and she did not resist, though her magic was formidable. They called her names, and she did not resist. They set the roots alight, and still the witch did not fight the taunting crowd.

But the villagers did not know- the witch had a son. He stood at the forefront of the pyre, stunned beyond words, reaching a hand up towards the flames. And as the witch burned, she smiled down at her son and uttered a terrible curse. _You, my son, will live forever. If I must die here, then you shall never know this pain._

 _(It’s wrong,_ Spectre thought, blotting out the storybook text with ink, wanting to tear the pages out entirely but refusing. _This isn’t what happened. That’s not the kind of woman she was._

In his memories, he’d hidden quietly behind the trees, where his mother had sent him quickly as the clamoring mob approached. She’d hugged him tight, as if to shelter him from the world, then pushed him back by the shoulders to stare down at him. He couldn’t remember the color of her eyes- only that they were full of worry he didn’t yet understand.

“Run,” she said, “and hide. Don’t look back. Don’t tell another soul about me. If someone asks of your parents, tell them you were born from the trees.”

He hadn’t understood. He had been so terribly young; death had not yet solidified itself into his thoughts. While he’d stood there unable to say a word, his mother had pulled something from the pocket of her flowing dress with the soft clink and shift of a golden chain.

“Take this,” she said, draping a long chain over his neck and pressing the pendant at its bottom gently into his chest. He felt the soft glow of her magic over it, warm and familiar, though the pendant itself buzzed with a magic entirely different. “and guard it carefully. It’s yours. In the last life, and now in this one too it’s returned to you. Let no one steal it away. My magic will protect it and hide it from prying eyes. And when the time comes, say the magic word and release it again.”

Spectre nodded, and his mother all but pushed him away, shooing him stumbling into the forest. He’d run down the familiar paths, the ones known to no one but him and the animals. Even the hunters and their cruel traps were none the wiser.

But he’d been worried- he’d been so worried. He’d run, but he still knew where he was. His trips into the forest had so often taken him further. He knew something was wrong; he couldn’t simply leave his mother there. So he’d returned.

He’d returned and stood struck frozen in the shadow of the trees, watching the blaze burn brighter than the moonlight, his mother at its very center. And as she burned- as Spectre watched terrified as her skin peeled, as her fingers charred as then- only then- had she tried to resist- she’d called out to him, with a voice more magic than mortal. _Run-_

But before he could, there was a man looming over him, casting him again in shadow and seizing him before he could run away again.

“Shit,” said the man, dragging him back by the scruff, his weak protests doing nothing to throw off the man’s grip. “She had a kid.”)

The nameless child had no place left to turn, and the villagers, suddenly struck with remorse for what they had done, brought the child back into their village. They vowed to treat him as one of their own, curse or not.

But it quickly became apparent that the child was not right. Wherever the child went, death followed him. Birds fell from the sky, and pet hounds keeled over from illness when they slept at his bedside. The crops brought in a bad harvest, and hunters turned in bad catches full of rotting meat.

The child was truly a curse, brought upon the village by the mad witch.

 _(I wasn’t,_ Spectre thought, dragging the brush with mechanical precision across the text, _there was nothing wrong with me._

But in his memories still came all the whispers that were determined to prove him wrong, even centuries down the line.

 _You mustn’t_ , whispered mothers to their children, clutching their hands close and dragging them away by force. Friendly curiosity turned to fear, feeding off of the senseless adults- the adults who should have known better than to believe in curses, than in meaningless stories meant to scare children into behaving. He was only six years old, and even he knew that curses weren’t real.

 _Don’t you dare talk to my little sister,_ said a young man, holding a knife to his throat, back pressed against a wall, struggling to breathe. _Don’t you dare. You’re only here because that curse won’t let us drive you out._

 _They’re not real,_ he tried to say, and the blade pressed into his throat. He didn’t say any more. That, he learned very quickly.)

A small age passed.

The people of the village forgot why they should be afraid.  

“You know that child,” the woman hissed, vicious gossip that no one would dare deny, “he’s cursed. That mother of his did something foul. He doesn't age. He doesn’t starve. Even if you stabbed him through the heart he’d probably pick himself back up.”

Fear became words. Words became stones. And the boy knew not why he deserved this, save the hole in his heart and the words he couldn’t use to ask why. He could only live. He had no other choice.

And then came the other. A child that watched him from the shadows, poking their head out from around the corners of buildings and staring down from the branches of trees where he’d hid until the others had all left, bored of tormenting the child who no longer had the strength to fight back.  

This time the other was in the trees. The boy glanced up, and their gazes met- it was only for a moment, but the other didn’t look away. Instead he scurried down carefully from the branches, possessing a grace that the boy could only aspire to with his scraped-up palms and bleeding knees. He brought down bandages, just scraps of cloth from an old baby’s swaddling.

The boy flinched away from his approach. He’d seen this a dozen times- children watching him from afar, gathering up their courage to come and attack the monster. The creature that was only half a human.

The other drew back his hands, holding them up carefully, trying to show that he held no weapon. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not, I promise. I just… Your hands. You can’t do anything if you have cuts on your hands, right?”

He instinctively curled his hands inwards, pulling them towards his chest. His palms ached. The scabs on them pulled with the motion. He couldn’t tell if the blood on his wrists was new or old. He didn’t want to know in the first place.

“Here,” said the other, and slowly extended a hand. He flinched away, but the other just paused and waited, hand hovering harmless in the air. The boy hardly wanted to trust it. But slowly, slowly, he reached out his palms.

The other let out a long breath of relief, and slowly, gently, wrapped the makeshift bandages against his palms. They turned blotchy with red soon after the other put them on, and the boy didn’t know if they’d help- but he supposed it was better than the nothing he’d always been provided.

The boy glanced down at his hands, then at the other, then slowly, tentatively, nodded. He no longer knew if he could speak- perhaps that would be what drove the other away entirely. But the other understood. The boy like an angel nodded, then left, scurrying back into the village.

He’d assumed, of course, that it meant the end.

But the other found him again, and again, and again. Every time he brought something new- bandages, sweets, every manner of thing he thought might amuse him. Once, he brought a book- _Blue Angel,_ he called it, and read it slowly aloud, speaking the words of a history he’d never been told but knew all the same. Still, the story felt right. When the other said, quietly- _she kind of reminds me of you,_ the boy had nodded in agreement. He had no way of knowing why, but even without the illustrations drawn so careful across the scroll, it was as if he could see every action, every character well as he’d seen them playing out the tale before him.

That day they sat together side by side beneath the graveyard tree green with summer leaves, shoulders brushing, for a very long time after the story was finished. The boy closed his eyes- for the first time he could remember, he felt something strange- something calm.

But it all shattered in an instant to the sounds of footsteps marching up the dirt road. The boy’s eyes shot open, and he scrambled to his feet as the other did the same beside him. They hid together behind the tree, holding their breath and fingers scraping against the bark, praying to the old gods that they wouldn’t be found. No one had called for a funeral today; they thought they’d be safe. Eventually the voices faded, and when the boy chanced a glance out around the tree trunk, he saw a group of hunters disappearing into the swamp, bows slung over their shoulders and swords strapped two to their sides.

And the boy knew then, with absolute certainty, where this was heading. He grabbed a stick from the ground and traced frantic into the dirt, his characters messy with disuse- _If they catch you, you’ll be killed._

“Then they can kill me,” said the other, taking his hand and squeezing it gently, without hurting the scabs still healing beneath the bandages. “Maybe then they’ll all stop hurting you.”

Oh, but that was the one thing the boy couldn’t allow.

This time he fled far into the graveyard, curled himself up alongside the cabin that not even the bravest of the village hunters would dare to approach, much less touch. The boy had no reason to afraid, but the rest of them clung desperate to their superstitions. The other may have been kind, but he had to be afraid. Surely the other wouldn’t chase him here. Surely here he could die alone, without damning that kind hand down with him. In the next life, perhaps he could be whole.

But the other found him there, too, leaning down to cast his shadow over the boy.

“Why?” asked the boy, his throat sore and words rough around the edges. He did not often speak. Whenever he did, the villagers would threaten to cut out his tongue. And that alone he could not lose. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“You were cursed, weren’t you?” Asked the boy, and he could only nod in response. Everyone knew of his curse. Everyone feared it. “I can break that curse for you. If you trust me, and come with me, then I can save you. I promise.”

Those were pretty words. But the boy had been fooled many times before, and had the scars to prove for it. He ducked his head and curled his arms across his chest and clutched onto the thin fabric there.

But the other didn’t give up. “If you come with me, I can give you a place to belong. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise. I’ll promise it however many times you need.”

“What’s your name?” asked the boy to the other.

(Spectre snapped the book shut, and left the rest for another day that would never come. He hardly wanted to see the mistakes that history had made- that some bleeding heart in the village had penned about him out of pity, a misplaced story of a traveller and a curse and a monster besides them both. He needed none of that, now. For he knew what he was, and it was so much more than he had been, then. The story was a needless afterthought. The memory that resided in him was the only truth he need possess.

And the truth was this:

“My name’s Ryoken,” he said with a grin. And the boy could do nothing but be captivated by that expression no one had once dared to turn on him before. He held out his hand, and let Ryoken pull him to his feet. “What’s your name?”

The boy had no answer to that. If his mother had called him something, he’d long since forgotten, the sound of her voice long since whisked away with his fading memory. But he didn’t have to voice that.

Ryoken hummed and considered him carefully, the scrutiny kind. “You remind me of someone I think I might have known once. A long, long time ago. His name was _Spectre._ Can I call you that, then?”

 _Spectre._ Ghost. Phantom. He repeated the name quietly, so soft he wasn’t sure that Ryoken could hear it at all. And it felt right. He nodded.

Ryoken smiled at him again, brighter than the sun. He hadn’t yet dropped Spectre’s hand. The warmth of it was kind- the only real thing in the world. 

* * *

Yusaku stumbled back, shaking the images of the foreign memories from his mind. Except for the part where they hadn’t been foreign, not all of them.

 _One, two, three_ \- Why, thought Yusaku, had the face of that child been so familiar to him? He couldn’t say he was confident they’d never met. But he was also sure that he hadn’t been present for that scene. If he had been, surely it would have awoken his own memory- it had the first time. There was still the possibility it was fake. Spectre’s power was strange, and there was no denying that Yusaku wasn’t sure how much it could alter a memory.

“This can’t be…” Aoi began, then trailed off, blinking up at Spectre. Her magic fluttered about her, but it wasn’t ready to strike out- rather, it was reaching blindly forwards, floundering for a connection that it couldn’t make. “No. This is the truth. I recognize this. I’ve _dreamt this_.”

“I know that graveyard,” Yusaku said. But if the Princess had seen it too, then there was suddenly much less possibility that it was faked. He added, though he couldn’t be sure- “I saw this happen.”

“Did you _really?”_ Spectre said, in a tone that Yusaku couldn’t make heads or tails of with the ringing in his ears. The sensation was making it hard to focus, Yusaku, for perhaps the first time, was having difficulty keeping his balance. It was as if his mind wanted to float somewhere distant, towards an ocean made of shadows, beckoning him forwards with gentle waves. He fought against it with everything he had.

 _One_ \- he was in the Royal Cemetery, standing next to Crown Princess Zaizen Aoi and the angel who called himself Spectre. _Two_ \- he couldn’t lose himself now, not when one of the angels he’d sworn revenge against was within his grasp. _Three-_ he still had yet to discover anything about Kusanagi Jin. If nothing else, he had to achieve that.

Yusaku stood strong, and felt the ringing start to fade, blinked and let the brightness of the world face back to its proper, moonlit state. The whole process took only a moment. When he returned to himself, Aoi was speaking again.

“But how…” Aoi shook her head. “None of this makes sense. You’re an angel. You can’t possibly be telling me that…”

Spectre smiled, smug in the certainty that he held the upper hand. “Tell me, Your Highness. Do you believe in the concept of past lives?”

“None of this matters,” Yusaku said, ignoring the way Spectre was trying to swing the conversation in his favor. He couldn’t allow this to continue any further, not with the Princess’ already tentative connection to the angels. “You’re still attacking the city.”

Spectre smirked. The expression sent a chill up Yusaku’s spine with just how self-assured it was. “And tell me, Playmaker. How many have died?”

“What?”

“Tell me,” Spectre repeated, “How many have died? In a city that’s been riddled with disease and famine, why has there been no discontent? No riots? No funerals? Tell me, truly. How many have died?”

Yusaku glanced over at Aoi- surely as Princess, that was information she would be privy to- but hers was fixed completely and utterly on Spectre. “What are you saying?”

“As we’ve been trying to tell you,” Spectre said, positively looming as he delivered his declaration, “You’re fighting for the wrong side.”


	27. XXVI ["Let it Burn"]

They were younger, then, and the weight of the centuries had not yet come to weigh so heavily upon their shoulders. Memory was returning, slowly and in bits of dream, but they could not have known what would await them on their journey home. They were by any standards children, living the part of the fairy tale that would never be told. It was their secret, and their secret alone.

Ryoken led him away from the village, and Spectre thought not to protest. He’d ran into the woods himself a dozen times over, but he’d always been found- been dragged back half-dead on the back of some hunter’s wagon, thrown to the ground starved but bruises healing. And yet none of it had ever been enough. The child who wouldn’t age, the child who wouldn’t die. On the worst of days, he’d wondered if he hadn’t been born cursed after all. 

The trails Ryoken lead them up were familiar to Spectre- they were the ones up to the place he had once called home. He hadn’t been back to the clearing and the cabin where he’d lived with his mother since the Incident; to Spectre it seemed a burden just too heavy to bear. He didn’t want to see what state it had been reduced to. 

But Ryoken either didn’t sense his hesitations, or was determined to lead him through regardless. Spectre wasn’t sure, but he thought it was the latter, given the way Ryoken’s grip tightened in his as they slipped into the clearing. Spectre didn’t want to look, but he forced himself to- never in his life had he turned away from cruelty. All the better to look, to remember and learn careful the ways to dismantle someone. Even then he knew that it might one day be of use. 

They passed the ashes of the tree where his mother had burned. In the ruins of it was something green- just the hint of a new tree, growing out of the charred stump of the old. Spectre stopped next to it, and for a long while he couldn’t move. Ryoken wasn’t impatient, just stood with him, watching quietly.

“Is that important to you?” Ryoken asked, and Spectre nodded. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Spectre couldn’t quite manage to make the words come out. He pulled Ryoken over to the small gap in the tree where there had once been a small cavern in its roots, staring at that greenery emerging from the black. He lifted a tentative finger, just a soft brush against the leaves- and was more captivated than anything. At his side, Ryoken crouched down to watch as the small sprout caught the wind, bending without breaking.

Spectre had never seen this before. The leaf was cool against his trembling fingers, undeniably alive. He’d never thought that it would grow again, not after the way the flames had eaten it whole. 

“My mother,” Spectre finally said, all he could manage before his throat closed up again. He really wasn’t used to speaking. Ryoken’s hand squeezed his, though he said nothing. But that was fine, Spectre thought. That was more than enough. It was more than he’d ever had. 

“When we get back,” Ryoken said, speaking of somewhere that Spectre didn’t know, “we’re going to make things better. We’re going to help make a good world. Where people don’t get scared and do terrible things. They won’t have to. That’s what the Prophet says.”

Spectre thought that would be an impossible world. He knew nothing of Prophets, of gods, of pillars- but Ryoken said it so optimistically, so brightly, believed so wholeheartedly in those words that Spectre couldn’t help but think that would be a very nice world indeed. 

* * *

Ai blinked awake, and immediately decided that he didn’t like this. His gauntlet had been set in the middle of a glass case- on some nice, cushy velvet, at least- in the middle of what appeared to be a great big expanse of  _ nothingness _ .

White walls on all sides, flickering rainbow through the glass, tinged with a magic that Ai could taste. Ai squinted, taking stock of his situation with all his senses, displeased with his limited range of consciousness. At least when his gauntlet had been on Ghost Girl’s wrist, he’d had  _ some _ mobility.

But that was then, this was here. He could do this. There was nothing to it, in theory. He’d staged some great escapes over the years, trying to avoid the prying eyes of his fellow Ignis, except for the fact that no, actually, he hadn’t done that at all.

He’d spent the last hundred years or so stuck sleeping in a temple, dead to the outside world- and had his power for all of a minute before something had come and taken it away from him. Ai huffed, tried to cross his arms, then remembered he didn’t have arms and huffed again before realizing he still didn’t have a mouth. 

“Can’t do anything satisfying, huh?” he grumbled, then remembered no one was around to hear him, and just about gave up then and there.  _ Where are the minions when you need them? _

Didn’t matter, Ai decided. He could sneak out of here on his own; he still had that much power left residing in him, or else he’d just have burned away when they’d been pulled out of hell by that hunter. 

The first step was unravelling the magic that held him down, which-  _ rude. _ It didn’t take him longer than a moment of probing to realize what kind of magic this was. Not quite his own, but close enough. Ignis magic, natural and wild as the six elements of the world, condensed down into tiny little regular bites understandable to humans and their tiny little brains. Which in turn made it one big pain to try and unravel from his side. It wouldn’t behave the way it was supposed to, but Ai would just have to deal with it.

Ai closed his eye, opened his mind, pulling in the magic that trapped him thread by thread, and started to unwind it. Whoever had trapped him here, Ai thought, had underestimated him. No more playing pet god to the humans- time to go free, and reclaim all his magic floating out there somewhere. It was kind of a mundane task- but that just meant he could get through it all the faster. The entire room was coated in the thin web of magic, but all he needed was to pull apart the ones that led to the exit. Sloppy work, Ai figured, as to be expected of humans.

He unravelled a whole net of them, reaching out a thread of his own power just  _ that much _ closer to the door- and promptly rocketed it back towards his gauntlet as the sound of voices flooded through the chamber.

“About Ghost Girl’s execution,” said the first voice, unfamiliar and cold- or maybe not  _ unfamiliar, _ Ai thought, squinting for the source and finding nothing. 

“Yes?” said the second one, and Ai recognized it immediately. Zaizen Akira, the hunter- basically useless to Ai, in this life. 

“Why don’t we set it the night of the war game? I’m sure it’ll be a thrill.”

“I’m sure,” replied Akira, though it was slightly less confident that it had been just a moment ago. Ai waited with bated breath to hear the first voice’s verdict, but he couldn’t hear a word more. Ai frowned, then went back to unravelling the trap, with a little more urgency, this time. He had no intention of being used in some war game with stakes he couldn’t care less about. If he could just go back to heaven, spend the rest of his days in paradise-

It might be lonely, Ai thought, but it was sure better than anything he’d find here.

* * *

Things were not as they should be things were not as they should be things were not as they should be and there was no way to convey it-

Powerless powerless powerless, three ways that no one could be saved because it was a failure, a failure, the third and then the third again and now nothing compared to the maker-

Nothing he could do nothing he can do nothing nothing nothing that’s what it all must become- 

They mustn’t fall must stay strong the pillars were crumbling already might as well tear them down from the bone  _ you understand don’t you? _

Mind. Bone. Soul. Magic. The source of it all.  _ If the Ignises aren’t gods, then what is a god, really? Strike down heaven and you may one day just find out. _

Words. A voice. A command. A reaction. This was what must be believed. Liars. It won’t be remembered. Let it go. Let it go.

_ “Let it burn” _

* * *

Go Onizuka blinked awake to the feeling of complete and utter breathlessness- he heaved in a giant one immediately, blinking wildly in the dim light and trying to take stock of his surroundings. He was cold- frozen as he imagined death felt, and none of his limbs seemed to want to listen. He blinked again, and the darkness that clouded his vision parted all at once. He was staring up at the rafters of his own home, illuminated softly in the moonlight that spilled in from over the ocean. Go bolted upright, commanding his tired limbs to move.

“The orphanage,” he said, remembering the shriek that he’d heard, the one that had ripped through the mirrors and the cries.

“You’re- what?”

Go looked over at the voice, taking in the man that stood at the edge of the circuit that had been drawn atop his floor in red and white. It was too intricate for Go to fully discern what runes and magic it was made up of without further investigation, but Go thought that he hardly needed to go to such lengths- he was here, back in his home. That was proof enough that it was a summoning circuit, and the man before him a competent witch.

“The orphanage,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height and letting his magic spark as a warning to the strange man. It wasn’t that he had no gratitude, but rather that this superseded all. “What happened to it? The one close, on the first road to the docks. Is it safe?”

The man looked at him in bewilderment. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. But before that-”

“Nothing comes before that,” Go said, “Not when it might be in danger.”

He didn’t wait for his savior’s permission, nor did he care if it was granted or not. Go fled his own home at haste, leaving the man presumably bewildered behind him and pushing out into the docks. He cut a path straight up to the city, tracing the familiar path up to the orphanage. The further he got, the worse the air seemed to taste, the heavier the atmosphere felt- and Go knew that it wasn’t just his imagination, or the give of his tired limbs, tired mind.

It was the feeling of Hell, and it only grew stronger the closer he drew to the orphanage. Go ran. He ran as he never had in his life, because he  _ had _ to beat it-

Go turned the corner, on the street towards the orphanage. A red streak was falling from the sky towards it, and Go could see as a tear in the world began to creep across the street. It could only have been an angel. Go raced it, pushed himself, crossed a minute’s sprint in thirty seconds flat to leap up the orphanage steps in a single bound, just a moment behind the angel- and was blown back by the force of the flashback as it erupted from the center of the building.

The force of it slammed Go down onto the cobblestone street, head hitting so hard for a moment he lost his sight- but he pushed himself up immediately, struggling against the lingering pressure from the flashback. It seemed it had only lasted a moment- Go blinked away the stars from his vision and braced himself against the heat, and hoped against all odds-

The angel stood amongst the ruins, his back turned to Go as the flames licked up through the orphanage, burning hotter than any blaze Go was used to from the ring. The roof had already caved in, only the supports still stood like torches in the dark night, the ash stronger than even the scent of the sea. 

“What did you do!?” He accused, looking not for answers. The angel before him didn’t provide one, merely heaved out a long breath as the feathers began to fall from his wings, extended wide out at his sides, just thin bones against the flames. 

“What did you do?” Go roared again, above the crackle of the flames, louder than even the collapse. Surely the entire city could hear him; again the Angel didn’t so much as acknowledge him, back still turned, feathers still falling.

Enough of this.

Go seethed and raced forwards to punch the angel. He threw every bit of magic he had at it, no matter how far he had to dig down into the dregs of his soul. One, then another, then another, intent on destroying the angel even if it was the last thing he did. The flames burst out in a circle around them, driven back by the sheer volume of Go’s magic in the air around them as he threw blow after blow.

But none of them connected- not a single punch landed, because the angel had dissolved down into red dust that glinted in the flames. Go reached out to try and seize a handful of it, but it slipped straight through his skin, passing through him with a choking sensation that made his arm go numb and seize up his throat. Once they passed the sensation eased, but it didn’t quell the unease in his heart.

There was no one. In the smoldering ruins, there was well and truly no one. Go turned a slow circle in the wreckage, then slipped a hand into his pocket, clutched it tight around the card, resisted the urge to rip it to shreds, to set it alight in the ruins then and there. 

The angels would pay.

Whatever their intentions had been, whatever kindness a stray angel might have shown- Go wouldn’t forgive them for this. If it was a grudge that would carry him to his grave, then so be it.

Go crushed the card in his grip, and all but threw himself from the ruins.

The angels would pay, and Go knew with exactly which one to start. 


	28. XXVII [Existence- Somewhere, Anywhere Else]

“We aren’t fighting for the wrong side.” Yusaku’s declaration was steady and self-assured. Aoi wished that she could be quite so confident about it. She wouldn’t forsake her Kingdom, not even for her own life- and she certainly didn’t trust Spectre. But if she was to trust her own dreams, to believe in the hints the angels had been so graciously dropping for her to follow- then it seemed she too had been an angel, once upon a past life.

“Step aside,” Aoi ordered, but her words had no effect on Spectre.

“I have no intention of doing so. And I’m afraid you can’t force me to, either,” Spectre replied, looking quite smug with himself- though the contract and its terms had been Aoi’s idea. Without the full context, she’d masterminded her own trap.

“Then I’ll cut you a deal,” Yusaku said, and Aoi tensed at his side, not liking what the stakes might be but determined not to show any sign of weakness in their united front- because she knew well enough by now that Spectre would tear into them without a moment’s hesitation if she disagreed with Yusaku now. Spectre hummed, curious, and Yusaku continued- “You can have your summoning. You wanted me, too, right? Then I’ll come with you. But in exchange, you return Kusanagi Jin, unharmed.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Spectre said, eyes gone cold at the mention of that name, “He’s a vital piece of the puzzle. Dare I say more important than even you.”

“And what plan is that?” Yusaku asked- and Aoi wondered, then, if he’d been fighting this entire time without so much as knowing why the world was at war with the angels in the first place. If his grudge was truly so strong that he’d lost the context that it was set in entirely.

“You couldn’t possibly comprehend the prophecy that Revolver has spent so long trying to fulfill. Not as you are now,” Spectre said. There was a strange tone to his voice. Aoi couldn’t place it entirely, nor did she have time to.

“You’re out to destroy the Ignises,” Aoi said, “and using the flashbacks in order to destabilize the world. You don’t care for our realm of reality at all. So long as you can destroy the devils hiding in the depths of hell, you don’t care what happens to the rest of existence.”

Spectre stared at her with distaste written clear across his pinched expression. “Is that truly what they’ve told you? Do all humans think so little of us? As expected of mere humanity, I suppose.”

Aoi scowled at him. Her ancestors had written that history; it was impossible to feel it as anything other than a roundabout insult aimed straight at her heart. Spectre’s gaze on her changed; looked briefly interested. But it wasn’t any kind of interest that Aoi thought to entertain. It was dark, a cruel curiosity- a rat ready to play with a mouse whose tail was trapped under its paw. “But you could be different. You, Zaizen Aoi, might just be able to understand. Is it too much to ask you to try?”

Spectre held out a hand, bowled his shoulders in mockery of a sweeping invitation. Aoi had long since had enough of being thrown around by his whims.

“No,” Aoi said, “never. I’d never forsake my home. And I have no intentions of helping you summon Revolver, so I suppose you’ll have to try the summoning on your own.” It was Aoi’s final card, but she thought that it would be strong enough- if Spectre had needed her for the purification ritual, then certainly she’d be needed for the summoning. That was why he was insistent, Aoi thought- and that was why he was cornered, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. But Spectre wasn’t so much as swayed as he retracted his hand- judging that Yusaku wasn’t about to take it, either.

“Whether you cooperate or not,” Spectre said, “I already have everything I need.”

Aoi’s guardians fluttered out from behind him- Del and Sweet, the two of them no longer with hollow eyes but with something much more fearsome- expressions of sheer determination that curled hooks of fear through Aoi’s heart. It wasn’t right. 

“Stop,” she said, not knowing if she was trying to order Spectre or her guardians- but it hardly mattered, because neither of them listened. She lunged forwards as Spectre stepped back, onto the ground of the circuit. Her fae followed, and Aoi reached out a hand for them, tugging at the same magic that she’d managed before. But this time, it was entirely gone from her grasp. No matter how deep she dug, there was nothing there- and her outstretched hand slammed into a barrier, glinting between her and Spectre. At her side she felt Yusaku trying to slice it open, using his winds to reach around, to pierce a hole straight through.

Aoi slammed her fist against the barrier once, then twice, trying to channel the magic through her bare hands and blood and bone and flesh, if she had to, but it didn’t so much as give. Her guardians sunk into the circuit, melting down from fae into petal and bone and dust that painted the remaining circuit markers red. 

“It’s a bit ahead of schedule,” Spectre said, “but I’ll compensate.”

And then there was a flash- a feeling as if the world was rending around her, like a flashback but much more immense, throwing her back, trying to rip her to shreds. She let out a pained little gasp, involuntary as she crumbled to her knees. She sent all her magic to her gauntlets, their origins be damned- her shield sprang to life around her, but it did nothing to relieve the pressure bearing down on her. 

She wouldn’t survive. The weight was crushing in her lungs, and the taste of blood in her throat was overwhelming; Yusaku might survive but Aoi herself would be dead if she didn’t escape here, now. She tried to step back with her knee but only felt herself being pushed down onto her back, starting to be pressed in half in a way that pulled something taut in her spine, uncomfortable and searing on her shoulder blades.

_ Somewhere else, _ she thought,  _ somewhere, anywhere. _

The weight was crushing. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, her arms were being pushed back into her chest as she strained to try and keep them out-  _ Somewhere, anywhere, I need to go- _

The note, the palace- Hayami, Ghost Girl, Akira- it all flashed quick through her mind before settling on the Ignis. Her vision was sparking black, what wasn’t dark was overwhelmed quickly with light, spilling out red.  _ There- _

* * *

Kyoko followed the call of the card down to the docks, towards a warehouse there- a strange location in and of itself. She had more reasons than not to be suspicious, and all her instincts screamed at her not to follow the lingering traces of her magic. To ignore it, to return to the shop, to curl into herself and clutch tight as she could to the reminders of her favorite fading warmth. But if there was even so much as a chance that it was a real call, a plea from someone suffering, cold and alone in the corner of a warehouse, then she had to respond to it.

She’d never forgive herself for ignoring it. Not this time.

The door where her magic lingered was closed tight, but not locked- the moment she set her hand against the knob the door creaked open, swinging open to reveal a wide expanse, not empty. Even in the dim light Kyoko could make out a few shelves, a table- someone’s home, then. There wasn’t a single light to be found. Again her impulse screamed out for her to run, to turn back, to let the call go unanswered-  _ if you flee now then you may still escape with your life- _

But that was a weakness she would not allow.

Kyoko stepped inside the dark warehouse, and straight into a bind of magic- a trap that she knew well. They’d used it in their own hideout when the Princess had arrived- set it over the house just as a precaution. Old magic, designed to keep anyone without the power of an angel out, barring invitation. Not, Kyoko thought, that it had done them any good in the end. The flow of magic made Kyoko feel light-headed, urged her to drop her shielding and let her wings unfurl, to let the magic residing in her bare itself for all to see. Kusanagi had figured out how to reverse it, then- to keep the angels inside the barrier. Kyoko held herself back, and took a few brisk steps into the warehouse. It was clearly Onizuka’s; training equipment littered the majority of it, save where an open space had been cleared in the middle. A single man stood waiting, blowing out a candle and dropping it to roll about his feet and into the shadows. The only thing left illuminating them was the moonlight, drawing them pale as death.

“Kusanagi,” she said cordially, resigned. Her eyes tracked down from the metal tag on the chain around his neck to the ring on his pinky finger glinting low in silver, and she wondered if he knew what he held, this time around. Wondered if it was best to tell him, or if that would only ruin every last road that they’d painstakingly paved.

“Taki Kyoko, I presume? Or should I say the angel Vyra?” Kusanagi asked. But it was clear they were all questions that he already knew the answer to. Kyoko thought she’d spare him the trouble and cut to the chase. This time, like all the times before, there was only one thing he possibly could want.

“We don’t have Jin. Your little brother is far out of our hands, now.”

“Why should I believe you? All the evidence I have-  _ centuries worth of it- _ tells me that you angels are the ones who took my brother. If he’s not alive and he’s not dead, then he must be with you,” Kusanagi accused. And how Kyoko wished that was true. How she wished it had ever been true.

She said, letting the plead bleed plainly into her voice- “I would return him to you if I could. Even if you believe nothing else, then please believe that.”

“But you don’t have him. And apparently you can’t get him,” Kusanagi said. Astute as ever, Kyoko thought. The anger that rolled off him was unrelenting. Kyoko would do nothing but accept it. 

“No,” she said, wanting to shake her head but unwilling to break eye contact lest it be seen as an attempt to hide a lie, “We don’t. And I can’t. None of us can touch the place where he’s gone. A pure Ignis, perhaps, but nothing else. Not even you and all your efforts.”

Kusanagi stared at her with cold eyes. “Then  _ where is he?” _

“I don’t know.” It was the only truth that Kyoko could speak. 

“You don’t know, but you’re confident that you can’t get him?” Kusanagi challenged. Kyoko nodded. She wondered if it wasn’t too fantastical a tale, in this world where magic often seemed structured so rigidly- the the humans and their circuits, at least, magic that oft resembled science more than the magic that burned through Kyoko. He was certainly somewhere, that much all the angels knew with the phantom reaches of his presence that slipped occasional through their awareness, a reminder of their sins. 

“Please. I won’t lie to you now. We’ve spent more time than you could imagine trying to track Jin down.” Kusanagi laughed at that once, bitter. She knew not if it was because he could imagine quite a length of time, or if because he doubted they’d looked. Or perhaps he thought they’d searched with evil intention. She wouldn’t blame him. She couldn’t.

“But you took him. You don’t have him, and you can’t find him, but you hurt him.”

Kyoko let her eyes slip closed a moment, a long blink that took her back through the centuries to the Incident, to the children whose involvement she had done nothing to prevent. She’d been so blind. She’d been so arrogant. Hers hadn’t been the hand that damned them, but it certainly wasn’t clean. Neither time had it been. “I did nothing to protect them. I may as well have been responsible for it myself.”

“Then I’m not going to regret this.” Kusanagi lifted his arm. On it rested the gauntlet, but there was no trace of the Ignis’ mind residing within. That she could feel pulling at her from somewhere else in the city, moving, pulsing,  _ living. _ This was but a hollow imitation.

“The fake?” Kyoko said, unimpressed- but even as the words crossed her lips, she sensed something strange. The gauntlet was the gauntlet, devoid of Ignis, but the magic in the air crawling its way toward her with deadly intent was true. She didn’t know how, or why- but her body burned with tension, begging her to resist what was coming. Still did the magic slither, dangerous, a poison- Kusanagi met her gaze with a dark sort of determination. The least she could do was honor it.

“That charm,” she said, because she could deliver one final kindness in a life marred by scars, “the one you found in my grave. Hold on to it carefully, Kusanagi Shoichi. Don’t let it leave you. Or you might find yourself gone somewhere that you can’t return from.”

“Hell?” he asked, “because I’ve pulled a man back from that before.”

Kyoko shook her head. She wasn’t trying to make a threat; she quelled down the magic raging about her, begging her to fight against the slow press of those flames ready to devour what remained of what had once been her soul, to fight with all the power her body possessed.  _ You could overpower him. Poison him. Destroy him from the inside out, _ the magic begged her,  _ So do it. Let the earth consume him. End his life. _

But Kyoko wouldn’t. None of Hanoi would allow that. Not even Genome, who pretended to protest morality and the ages gone by. She looked up at him and said- “Please be careful. There’s no point if there’s no one for Jin to return to.”

“I know,” Kusanagi said, “I won’t let that happen. I’ll be there for him, no matter what.”

They shared a moment- a quick understanding, two people on opposite sides of a war that both had people to return to. Kyoko clutched a hand to her chest and let it all overflow- the magic, her wings, unfurling from her back and shedding greyed feathers as the black flames leapt up to consume them greedy. The mask settled over her orange eye and she stared him down, daring him to do it. Already the black flames had torn away the air from her human lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

If everything else had failed- if she’d spent a dozen human lifetimes trying to repent for her mistakes, only to be met with disasters worse than she’d wish upon even her worst enemies… Kyoko felt the burn of the Ignis against her soul and thought that perhaps this was finally atonement. If the fates were kind, then perhaps they’d get another life. A kinder world. A softer existence.

One by one, the memories began to burn down to ash in the darkness. 

“Kyoko?” Ryoken, dragging Spectre to her by the hand. In his free hand Ryoken held a book, an old tome of magic the First King had brought from Vrains. Clearly the two had been off practicing, no matter how much they’d been forbidden. Kyoko sighed, and thought she might as well indulge them- the two would grow to be witches of their own right, at this rate. 

“What do you need me to explain?” she asked, and watched them all but fall over themselves to explain just what part of the circuit they were building had stumped them. Kyoko couldn’t hide her smile- those clever, brilliant boys would be their future. 

The sparkling glimmer of candles off crystal, burning diamond in the sky up above. The open air of the ballroom tasted like spring, like red roses and sweet flame. The sweep of velvet in her dress caught about Kyoko’s ankles as she strolled forward, the brush of duck feather against her arms as the wings at her back brushed sweet against her bare shoulders. The old country, Hanoi at its finest. The mask that covered her face was white, and the one that did nothing to hide the pleased gleam in Aso’s gaze black. She thought it rather defeated the spectacle of a masquerade to know one’s identity beforehand- but in the moment, Kyoko hardly cared- just accepted his hand for a dance and let herself be whisked away across the floor.

The five of them, gathered up together on a cold winter’s evening, watching as the snow fell outside their small cottage- just a temporary accomodation as they waited for the war game to begin, knowing full well that tomorrow perhaps one of them would be dead. But that hadn’t been the mood in the air, that day. Kyoko had made dinner, and they sat together around the small table, all but pressed into each other’s sides. 

Together they’d shared stories of their travels, of the small moments they’d spent apart over the centuries, as if to make up for the beats of time lost. It was warm as the fire burning in the corner of the room, their stories dredging up memories of golden fields outside a town so small it was nameless to all but its inhabitants. They’d been together. Kyoko treasured the memory, precious as a gemstone against her heart. As she struggled to keep her burning wings still against her back, though they wanted so desperately to flutter, to try and extinguish themselves with a breeze.

_ Yes, _ thought Kyoko,  _ a kind life. _

The one they’d lived between their mistakes. If, in the next cycle, they could just have that, then Kyoko would ask for nothing more. The warmth of a family, blood or not, would be more than any forgiveness.

The last of her feathers fell, and the flames rose up to eat away at her body, too. And as the last of her faded down into sparks of fading orange searching for its twin warmth, as the last of her vision gave way to the dark, she swore that she heard a voice, calling out to her in the tones of a millenia ago. 

_ Please don’t die. _

She gasped, reached out for it, jolting back to awareness as she sensed a familiar presence in the very corner of the room, a pair of blue eyes-

And disappeared. 


	29. XXVIII [Who Wants to be Queen?]

Akira turned on his heel, hesitating even as he forced himself towards the exit to make his way back up to the Palace. Surely the Council would have more work for him, by now. He’d wasted enough time on this witch. Stories could be fabricated much more easily than history. Hellhounds could be made affectionate to someone other than the bloodline they’d sworn to serve for a moment. She was the witch- some said of the most powerful bloodline, after the Zaizens themselves- who’d seized the power even fight against angels on even ground. She’d have no end to her tricks; he’d do well to remind himself of that again, no matter how alluring her words. 

“Leaving me alone already?” Ghost Girl said, and for a split second Akira thought she was about to say that she’d be lonely without him- a tease that belied a true sentiment beneath it. But she didn’t say that, of course- her words were much more cutting and blunt. “Even though you still haven’t gotten any clues as to the whereabouts of the Princess, yet? If your hounds are out for her, then they’re certainly doing a terrible job of it.”

Akira didn’t flinch, though he did stop in his tracks. His hounds were confused, certainly, but they’d engaged Ghost Girl before he tried sending them after the Crown Princess. That, he imagined, certainly played a part in complicating matters. He didn’t answer her question, instead delivering a simple proclamation as he turned back to Ghost Girl, now leaning against the bars of her cell. “I’ll do you the courtesy of giving you your execution date.”

“The day of the war game? Is it a precursor to the event, this time? Or perhaps the afterparty?” Ghost Girl’s eyes were dangerously knowing; Akira glanced towards the hall and glared, wondering if they’d been overheard. No one had been in to offer Ghost Girl food- torture was publically frowned upon, but a bit of starvation in desperate circumstances was par for the course, he’d been informed. 

And yet the woman herself still seemed unaffected. It had been days. Something in Akira’s gut curled uncomfortably, knowing full well what would be done to her before her death, if she didn’t comply soon with the wishes of the Council. He said, finally- “The day of the war game. We’ll see a traitor hanged before our champions take the stage.”

Ghost Girl’s smile turned quite bitter. Wistful, perhaps. It was a messy emotion, gone as quickly as she’d shown it. “As expected of the council. I thought they were taking a bit long with it, this time around. Will you be attending?”

“I’m required to,” Akira replied. He’d attended a dozen executions sponsored by the council before- as a hunter, it was part of his job. That wasn’t to say he enjoyed it. In his opinion, the era of public executions had long since passed, even for the most egregious of traitors. Ghost Girl hummed, and Akira couldn’t read the emotion in it at all. He turned his back on her, and took another step towards the exit- this time, he wouldn’t let himself be caught up by her.

“Akira?” said Ghost Girl, and Akira turned to face her one final time- but his gaze met hers much faster than he’d expected. No longer was she trapped behind bars; rather she stood just behind him, having moved silently. She stood quick on her tiptoes, pulling them almost eye to eye before Akira could do more than think to resist-

“I’m sorry, treasure,” she said, and waved a hand over his eyes, the finger trailing over his eyelids wet with her blood, slipping off the edge of her nail. At his side he heard Acute growl, but it was a distant noise, his senses falling away from him against his will. Sight, eyelids too heavy to lift. Hearing, dimming soft into nothing. The sharp scent of Ghost Girl’s perfume- luxurious and rich, but accented with something clean and simple- like the fresh air of the fields he’d spent his childhood in. Beautiful and nostalgic, like the woman herself. The last thing he felt were gentle hands, lowering him to the ground- and then there truly was nothing but the quiet embrace of the dark.

* * *

In her dreams, they ran the world. The two of them together, just the earth beneath their feet and hell and heaven some distant realities that had nothing to do with them- or rather had everything to do with them, but were simply too far out of reach. No human could touch either of them and come back alive- and in this life, that’s all they were. No matter what worlds spoke to them in the quiet in-between, they were just humans, crawling the earth in search of something neither of them quite knew. But they’d gone together, trading stories of the impossibly old days- the things they shouldn’t have remembered, but couldn’t help but daydream about.  _ Maybe in the next life you’ll be a royal. _

_ Who wants to be a royal? Hanoi or Sol or probably Vrains, too. They all just die. _

_ Not the First King. _

A shallow laugh.  _ I’ll never be the First King. _

Aoi gasped awake, pushing herself up from the cold floor- she’d lost consciousness, and hopefully only for a moment- but nothing added up. There had been no stone in the graveyard save the headstones, and the air hadn’t tasted like late-baked loaves of bread. Aoi calmed her heaving breaths and looked around, taking in her surroundings. They were intimately familiar- this was the corridor that she often took on her escapades around the Palace, on the days she felt more like eavesdropping a moth on the wall rather than escaping down into the city for books.  

The dumbwaiter was just across from her, and the smell wafted out from the dark kitchens, whose door had been left open by an inattentive chef. Aoi’s stomach growled instinctively, as she picked herself up off the ground. She ignored it for now- there were more important things to handle, and even hungry, she felt different. Her body sparked with energy, her sight seemed clearer than before, even in the dark. Something in her chest burned, but it was a spark of life rather than a flame of death.

A power to rival the angels. Aoi clenched her hands, then flexed them again, relishing in the way they seemed lighter than before. She finally understood how to take back what was hers- and she hadn’t needed anyone’s guidance to do it. She saw, now, that to which she’d been so blind- if no one would teach her, then she’d simply have to delve deeper into herself, rather than relying on the knowledge of outsiders. 

She’d fought against an angel. She hadn’t won, but she certainly hadn’t lost. And the next time, Aoi thought- the next time, feeling like this- then she’d win without fail. Aoi reached out her senses and her magic, searching for anything that could help her. The location of the other angels. Distantly she felt Holly, calling out for her in words she couldn’t make sense of, muffled through the distance still. 

But the thrum of the Ignis spoke to her precisely, shattered images and pieces of impulse and action in words that she could all but understand.  _ White room green threads glass box voices that came from thin air. _

Aoi knew that room- it was the Council Room, the very same place whose rafters she liked to rest in.She glanced up- and the path to it was right before her. Aoi swiveled on her heel, shaking off the last of the summoning’s influence like water from her hands, and all but shoved herself into the dumbwaiter, hauling herself upwards, towards the rafters. 

As she did, she felt her heart start to beat faster, felt the presence of the Ignis grow stronger, more distinct. If she closed her eyes, she felt as if she’d see its shape defined clear on the back of her eyelids. Purple and black, pulsing with an energy like a flame made of darkness, devouring all that came close. But it wouldn’t touch her, Aoi thought, because in her was  _ light. _

Aoi stumbled out of the shaft and pulled herself out onto the rafters, crossing them carefully on all fours. There was, as usual, no one in the walled-off upper auditorium, but she tried to stay quiet anyway. There was no telling if any of the Council was in the chamber below unless they spoke, and Aoi knew full well that they were prone to their overbearing silences, their judgement falling down in their lack of words and action. Disappointment conveyed in utter lack of acknowledgement. 

Aoi shook away her thoughts and pushed her hands against the brick. They didn’t give, of course, because no Palace wall would be constructed that shoddily, even at haste. So, Aoi thought, what to do? Taking her whip to it would cause a scene she wasn’t sure she could afford, not when the Royal Guard was likely patrolling the halls outside. But there was something else she could try. If she’d moved from one place to another, if she’d escaped the crushing weight of the summoning, then what was to say she couldn’t do something similar?

Aoi took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to call up the feelings and the magic she’d harnessed back in the cemetery. The fear...  She didn’t need that. Aoi cast away the lingering anxiety that she wouldn’t be able to do it, or that she’d be discovered. She was overflowing with magic, now. Anything she needed, she could do. If she just believed in that, then-

Aoi pressed her palm against the brick, letting the magic well in the center of her palm. The magic bled out from her blue, crawling like a spider’s web across the bricks, trailing out fluid through their cracks to form a circle around her hand, just large enough for her to step though. Aoi narrowed her eyes and thought of the first place that came to mind- the graveyard, with its small, blooming tree- and then pushed her hand forwards. The bricks disappeared, leaving for just a moment a faint sheen of blue magic- before like a piece of rubber it snapped back towards her palm, most of it fading as it went- but a bit still welled in her upturned palm before sinking back down into her skin with a burning prickle. Aoi grimaced, one eye closed against the strange sensation, but shook it off and stepped forwards, resting her feet on the rounded brick and grasping careful the edges of the wall to steady herself as she looked down.

Aoi squinted down at the empty hall, devoid of even chairs or tables- or anything she remembered faintly from the few times she’d been here in her youth. She couldn’t jump down. Unlike the angels she had no wings with which to catch herself. Instead she craned her head, trying to find a way that she could perhaps use her magic to scale the side. As she did, something seemed to glitter in the air around her, visible only when she started looking for them in particular.

_ Threads? _ She thought, but was interrupted by a call from down below, excited though muffled through the glass case set in the center of the hall. Purple light flickered up at her, faint but sure, and she knew without a doubt that it was the Ignis from the way her breath caught in her chest against any will of her own.

And then she felt- Aoi felt a sudden rush of sadness, of anger, of pure, bitter  _ anguish _ that wasn’t her own. It crashed through her and tore away at her, scratching hard against the fabric of her soul and tearing at something attached to it, pulling it away seam by seam. Aoi didn’t have the breath to scream- which, she thought, panicked, was probably a good thing. The last thing she wanted to do was attract attention. Aoi staggered, graped futility at the edge of the wall with her weak hands- and her vision went black. 

But it was only for a moment- Aoi gasped and blinked back to reality just a moment later. But it was just a moment too late- the wall slipped out of her grasp as her feet lost purchase under her, and suddenly Aoi saw nothing but the pure white of the ceiling. 

Aoi was falling. She was falling, and the Ignis certainly wasn’t going to catch her- Aoi panicked, pulling at any and all of her magic, hoping that if she really had been an angel, then those old memories would answer her now- but nothing did, and the floor crashed towards her as she twisted, thinking that perhaps if she collided into it with a shoulder and rolled atop one of her shields, then- 

Around her, the threads in the corner of her vision began to do something strange. The air about them was different- they went from rigid and stiff to wild and almost alive, snakes slithering through the air towards her, knotting themselves in a tight web direct in the path of her fall. Aoi slammed into them with her shoulder, and though she feared the worst, they held strong. The threads wrapped around her arms, her legs, lowered her gently to the ground before the glass case.

“Oh, the rescue party!” said the Ignis, as the threads released her, and Aoi finally got a good look at it- just an eye in the gauntlet. It resembled nothing of the formidable god that had nearly been about to destroy his own Temple in a rage. 

“You should be glad,” Aoi replied, and lifted the glass case from the cushion below. She’d expected some sort of trap- but, Aoi supposed, that must have been what the threads were for, because nothing happened when she lifted the case and set it on the floor at her feet. Aoi reached out for the gauntlet, wondering if something strange wouldn’t happen, the way that it had seemed to call out for her specifically- but she picked it up, and nothing happened. She was almost disappointed- it was good, she supposed, but also meant she had no more clues.

The gauntlet slid neatly onto her arm, sitting tight but not uncomfortable against her skin, sitting right above the bangle on her left arm. The sight of it still sent a bad chill up her spine, but there was nothing she could do to right the mistakes of her ancestors- not yet, anyway. “We have a war game to declare.”

“Oh no. I’m not going to be your hostage this time,” said the Ignis, straining against his bonds, but still just an eye-shaped jewel. It wouldn’t do him any good, Aoi thought, and tried to force him down with her power. It sparked between them, and the Ignis let out a squeak, then stopped trying to strain against her arm. 

“You don’t have a choice. I’m going to save my Kingdom. Whatever is happening here, I won’t let it go on. This is my responsibility. If I have to use you, then I will.”

“Hey, that’s pretty inconsiderate of you, huh? I’ve got a ton of-”

The door opened, and Aoi whirled on the spot, magic flaring about her, ready to resist if she found an angel on her trail, if she found a member of the Council there to demand that she cease- because if the Council already had the Ignis, then why hadn’t they gone and declared the game already?

But standing there before her was a woman that she didn’t know. She was dressed all in black, and her hair fell long around her shoulders in beautiful waves of grey. No, Aoi took it back. She did know this woman, though not personally. She’d said to have fled after her mother was killed- a traitor who’d played part in the assassination itself. She was the very image of the woman painted across the picture books of her youth.

“I’m sure you’ve heard terrible things about me,” Ghost Girl said, and Aoi thought that was putting it lightly. “But we don’t have time to hesitate. You need to declare the war game now, before they realize that you’re back in the Palace.”

“And I should trust you?” Aoi asked, seeing no reason to do anything of the sort. She hadn’t missed the way Ghost Girl’s gaze had gone right to the Ignis. Ghost Girl frowned, and lifted up her hand. Aoi braced herself- but at the tips of her fingers danced a series of green strings, wafting lazily through the air on a nonexistent breeze. 

“Unfortunately,” Ghost Girl said, “this is all the proof I have to convince you with.”

Aoi narrowed her eyes- that could be a trick. The times were rough; she found her good faith stretched thin trying to trust both an angel and a sentinel. But there was no time to decide- from down the hall came a sudden clatter, and quick as a blink there was a member of the Royal Guard standing behind Ghost Girl, blade in hard, ready to strike.

But Ghost Girl was fast. Before Aoi could do so much as shout a warning- in any direction- Ghost Girl had slipped under their raised arm, drawn her own blade, and slashed it neatly across their throat-

_ No, _ thought Aoi, not across.  _ Through. _

Though she knew not how such a small tantou could possibly have that much strength, the blade had sliced clean through the side of the Royal Guard’s armor and clean out the other side, severing the bone of his spine with a sickening crunch. But Ghost Girl wasn’t done- as she danced away from the Guard, she swiftly rounded on them and made a sweeping, high kick towards their head.

It was fast, and Aoi hardly believed it- but Ghost Girl knocked the head off one of the guards. Their helmet, Aoi had thought- certainly she’d heard the clatter of metal across the stone. But when she looked, her heart stuttered in her chest, a chill like nothing she’d felt before seizing her body. 

The guard’s head rolled about the floor, but the body itself still moved- mechanical and precise as ever. Kitamura stood just a ways behind them, looking not surprised as he drew into view- but slightly inconvenienced, perhaps. He’d known. This entire time, he’d known, and if even someone in his position knew, then it certainly stood to reason that the Council knew too- that the Council had ordered this.

The Guard lunged after Ghost Girl, headless, raising their blade to strike as Ghost Girl dodged in a dance that sent her hair spinning about her shoulders as she moved quick to stab the guard in the back, dragging the blade down their spine and shoving them to the ground with an elbow in a move that would have killed any human on the spot. But, Aoi thought, decapitating a human would have killed them first.

“What  _ are they?” _ she accused as much as asked. Kitamura turned up his nose at her and barked an order for his soldiers to advance. Aoi glanced frantic around the room- they were cornered. She tried for her magic, but whatever she’d possessed had well and truly deserted her. Even when she tugged, it wouldn’t respond.   

“Hey, come on, come on!” yelled the Ignis, sounding strained. Aoi wanted to snap that he should do something, if he was so concerned- he was the god here, after all- but didn’t get the chance as Ghost Girl turned back towards them, crossing the empty floor in a few graceful bounds. 

“With me,” Ghost Girl said, and held out her hand. Aoi hesitated, then took it with her right hand. Ghost Girl pulled her forwards a step. The air shifted around them in a sensation that was completely and utterly familiar to her- displacement. The same thing that Spectre had inadvertently shown her how to do, all those times. 

It was a short travel- just a moment, a blink of her eyes, the vague image of an unfamiliar man dressed in clothes that looked as if they belonged in a history book, or an ancient tapestry from before the founding days. When Aoi took her next breath they were in the balcony, standing before the doors. Ghost Girl pushed them open without a moment’s hesitation, and the two set off at a running pace, moving swift and silent together through the upper halls of the Palace.

The whole world had been thrown into chaos- guards moved through the halls with a deadly energy as the remaining staff secluded themselves in the nearest room, unaware of the source but moving fast out of the way of Ghost Girl and the Princess, doubtless looking ragged and wild.

Aoi didn’t care what they thought, not when her world had just been thrown to pieces. She and Ghost Girl worked their way back down the stairwell, the one just past the living quarters and closest to the courtyard. There was no way to avoid attracting the attention of the guards still stationed outside of the sealed doors to her room; Ghost Girl just pulled her along faster as Aoi put up a shield behind them, covering the regular blasts of magic that battered against it. Aoi shivered, and wondered how she’d never noticed just how  _ hollow _ their magic felt compared to the rest.

They took the stairs down two at a time, rushing, Aoi almost dripping over her momentum- but she could not, would not fail now. She couldn’t allow it. Together they burst out the door to the courtyard, and Ghost Girl slammed the doors behind them, dropping Aoi’s hand and urging her onwards. 

“Ghost Girl, what are-”

“There’s no time,” Ghost Girl said, pressing her back to the door. Magic pounded against it, and Aoi, for the first time in her life, thanked the thick old wood that kept Ghost Girl’s back, pressed to the seams of it, safe for just the last moment they could talk, “Go to the altar and declare the war game. Do it, now, before they catch you. The Council doesn’t care for your Kingdom. Just  _ go _ .”

Aoi took a step back, but asked- “But the King-”

“There  _ is no King,” _ Ghost Girl replied, sharp, “Just go! I’ll explain it to you. I promise you that. This lifetime, I swear it. Ai, keep her safe. Now go!”

Aoi ran. There were no Royal Guard in her path to stop her, all drawn to Ema and her magic- but she no longer had any fear of facing them. If she saw one, she’d have no hesitations about attacking. They weren’t human. They weren’t even  _ alive. _

Aoi sprinted across the courtyard, the Ignis protesting his bonds all the while- not so much with magic, but with grumbled words that Aoi didn’t so much as process in the heavy air of the night, thick with magic and staleness and the taste of something crumbing and rotting back down into the earth. She prayed she’d be in time. 


	30. XXIX [Traitors to the Crown]

Genome felt first the shock of the summoning- the terrible, rending sensation of the world gone wrong a day before it should have. Genome’s head swiveled to the first source- and then towards the second, and the third, and the fourth, aftershocks sweeping their way out through the city. At least, Genome thought, hopping to his feet where he’d been perched on the roof of the old pottery shop and letting his wings unfurl, that meant things might finally start to move.

The graveyard was a lost cause, already receding- and Spectre was there, at that. He could handle whatever arose. Faust’s magic burned close to the one near the sea; Kyoko’s magic flit fast towards the one near the town center, which left Genome with that one- he narrowed his eyes, stepped off the edge of the building, and fell a few feet to the ground as the world fell away and reassembled around him, landing beneath a flashback and throwing his hand to the sky. Magic trailed from him in pale yellow lines, wrapping up around themselves and sewing the ripping edges of reality closed by force. Genome grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes, the right flashing yellow as his chest ached awkwardly-the same place where that damned Princess had struck him. That was another bad sign in the long list of them, he thought bitterly, then shoved hard at the sewn-together flashback and let it rebound hard down into hell, feeling a certain sort of smug pride at the way he felt it clatter back, ripping itself apart as it went.  He turned his attention back to the world around him, reaching out his senses for any sign of another-

Genome blinked. Then blinked again. For some  _ inexplicable reason, _ there was a gaggle of kids looking up at him, all wide-eyed and slack jawed. The woman with them wasn’t much better, clutching on to as many of them as she could with eyes that spoke of how little she understood of anything that she’d presumably just witnessed. Genome clicked his tongue at the feeling that surrounded them as the flashback receded entirely. The woman flinched back, but the soft noise seemed to break most of the children out of their trance. Faust’s magic clung to them a long moment before vanishing. And not just the magic- Genome’s head swivelled towards the sea, ignoring the children that had started to clamor around him, trying to approach but held back with a soft bit of power, a barrier that kept them back better than the grasping hands of that caretaker ever could. They weren’t his specialty by a long shot, but even he could do something like that.

_ Shouldn’t have gone to be a hero, _ Genome thought, ignoring the way his magic roiled under a bad influence, taking a step away from the children and vanishing. There was only one place he could go, then, and he made his way towards it at haste. It took only a moment to reach the cemetary, a blink of the eye and a flash of an old research building bundled up in the woods- and then he was there, standing a dozen paces away from a summoning circle and a line of fallen trees, blown back with the impact. Leftover blood and bone was strewn about the grass at random, bleeding softly out onto the path as the winds raged a brief moment before going silent.

In the center of the circle stood Revolver, holding a struggling Playmaker off the ground by the throat.

“Kid,” he said, then paused, taking a good look at Revolver. The kid’s aura hadn’t been  _ right _ for a long time, but that was hardly his fault. Genone glanced around for Spectre, though he could sense by the auras in the air that the kid was nowhere in sight. That was a bad sign- if the kid had gone down to hell, then no one was going to have a chance to pull him back up. Genome was beginning to lose his patience with the foolish decisions of others.

“Kid,” he tried again, “what are you doing?”

Revolver’s gaze trailed over to him; Genome despised the intensity with which it regarded him. He’d been on the receiving end of plenty of the kid’s glares over the years, but never regarded with the intent to kill- not from him, anyway. 

“You lied to me,” Revolver said, throwing the struggling Playmaker to the ground. Genome heard the crunch of what was probably a shoulder or a hip as he hit the ground, meaning he’d broken a bit with the impact- but only heard. Genome wouldn’t take his eyes off Revolver, who’d just taken a step towards him. The full force of Revolver’s power was certainly a thing to be on the receiving end of- often not for its sheer force, but for the way it coiled low like a snake, waiting for the moment to strike and release its full force. 

Obviously Playmaker hadn’t been prepared enough for that, Genome thought, ruffling his wings and trying not to betray the shock that had just slipped through him.  _ Kyoko. _

He was surrounded by fools. Well and truly fools, Genome thought, as the first of the plagues began to slip from the sky, falling in gentle flakes of orange light, disappearing gentle as snow when they touched his skin. The last bit of the wound on his chest stitched itself up- but Genome couldn’t focus on that. He’d just be grateful he wasn’t going at this with any more of a disadvantage than he already was. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever accused me of being truthful,” Genome said flippantly, trying to figure out what exactly had gone wrong here. Or what exactly had happened. There was only one way that Revolver could have discovered the truth, and Genome was sure that hadn’t happened. Not intentionally, at least, and not under these circumstances.

“You lied to me about everything,” Revolver accused. Genome couldn’t even deny it. He probably hadn’t said a true thing to the kid for three centuries. How could he? How could any of them have? Genome looked Revolver over. They couldn’t have, when they all knew that this would be the result. 

Revolver stepped forwards. Genome had just enough pride and just enough stupidity left in himself not to step back. At his full height he was just the kid’s height; he wasn’t going to back down. He flared his wings out over his head and let his magic follow. Revolver’s stayed sharp and close to his skin as he took another step, closing fast the distance between them.

“No one in a family tells each other everything.”

Revolver was before him in an instant. Genome didn’t so much as have the time to move. 

“You’re not my family,” Revolver hissed, and plunged his hand through Genome’s heart, seizing the beating thing in his fist and starting to pull. If it was Vyra, or if it was Faust- Genome knew they wouldn’t resist. But Genome wasn’t nearly so noble. Not about a kid who’d gone tumbling straight down into the influences of hell. 

Genome let the magic bleed out of him fast, and all at once- in a burst of light the night turned brilliant to day, outshining even Revolver’s eyes- and as Genome pushed him away by the shoulders, he saw beneath the mask that Ryoken’s eyes were still blue.  _ There’s still hope for him.  _

Revolver’s magic was dented just enough by Genome taking him off guard; he flew back with a grand flap of his wings that stirred up the dust and the grass to land a few paces back, out of immediate physical striking range. Not, Genome thought, as it that meant much, what with that weapon of choice.

Genome wiped away some of the yellow blood from the wound in his chest with the back of a hand; it did nothing to stem the flow of it, but it did satisfy that bit of him morbidly curious to see what would happen if someone plunged a hand through his own chest, to see what his own beating heart looked like. 

“Yeah,” Genome agreed, answering the question Revolver hadn’t asked, “I was the one who did it. Vyra and Faust are too kind to kill a stranger. Nevermind their King.”

“Traitor,” he spat, “All of you. Traitors. I stayed with you for centuries, and the entire time, you had my father’s blood on your hands.”

“You know well as all of us what he did. Better than all of us,” Genome snorted. Revolver’s expression curled into a deathly frown; his magic lashed out and battered hard against what mental shields Genome could throw together.

“He was  _ going _ to attone,” Revolver spat at him. Behind him, Playmaker was rising to his feet; a wave of Revolver’s power rushed over him and slammed him back to the ground with another shattering sound. If Playmaker actually felt pain, then perhaps Genome would have the energy to spare a bit of sympathy- but Revolver’s attack on Genome had yet to let up.

“Was he really?” Genome asked, thinking of the things Kogami had done when they’d all believed that his reign over Hanoi had ended.   

“He was,” Revolver said, and shot. Genome reeled back as the bullet plunged through his chest, burning through with a dark bite of magic that Genome knew all too well- and hoped he’d never feel again. Genome fell to a knee and supposed they’d never quite been as free of Kogami as they thought they’d been.

Revolver again closed the distance between them, holding that weapon of his, that damned object out of time- and held it straight to his head. Genome glanced up, holding one hand to his bleeding chest, eyes gleaming yellow to match Revolver’s gold. There was no getting out of this now. Even if he did, he’d just burn himself out. 

“Spectre didn’t know,” Genome said. If he was going to be a liar, then best lie right until the end.

Revolver said nothing in return. Though Genome braced for a shot, it never came- Revolver’s magic crashed over Genome’s own and tore it to shreds with that same sense of wrongness as a flashback, down into yellow flecks of light, same as the ones dancing down from the sky.

_ You can’t go yet, _ said a tiny voice, a small, small sound that echoed out through the centuries.

And  _ no, _ Genome thought, letting the last of the magic in him burst outwards, searching for the source of it, it wasn’t possible. After all this time,  _ it wasn’t possible- _

* * *

Go was halfway to the Palace when something about the world seemed to slow around him. It was as if a layer of cotton had settled over his ears, as if something had enticed the world to sleep around him. Aoi’s guardian hung slow in the air beside him, wings still beating but sluggish, the fae suspended there, her own reflection blue in the shattered mirror shard she still held clasped in her fingers. Go stopped for her, reaching out a hand towards her- he still moved normally in the disturbed night. After a long, slow descent, the fae landed upon it.

_ Why, _ he wondered as orange then yellow rained down from the sky, gentle colors that beat soft as pieces of stardust like a witch’s spell,  _ what’s going on here? _

But if the world was moving slower, then Go wouldn’t protest- that only meant he’d suddenly gained more time to make it up to the Palace in time. Something was going to happen there, and soon- it was no magic that he knew this by, but simple intuition. It had never done him wrong before, and Go didn’t think it would now- he simply ran through the stardust magic and made fast for the top of the hill, bounding through the night with the wind at his back, racing the dawn to the war game.

* * *

Ema stood with her back pressed to the door; she watched as the Princess made fast towards the far edge of the courtyard, past the teahouse, then leaped away just as a thick blade pierced through the door, the top of it brushing along her spine without puncturing the skin- a kiss teasing death.

The sword was withdrawn as Ema twirled around with knife in hand, hair affluter around her shoulder and bloody fireflies dancing about her, ready for the moment to strike. The doors slammed open, and two of the Royal Guard poured out, flanking a nasty-looking man with a blade too bit for him to handle- it was obvious, Ema thought, in the way he lugged it around. That, she assumed, would be Kitamura, then.

She smiled to hide her frown- to dismantle one of the Royal Guard was one thing, but the man before her was clearly human, having gotten mixed up in things far beyond his calibre- dealing with him would be troublesome, then.

“You,” Kitamura began, “have caused the Council quite a bit of trouble, traitor.”

Ema didn’t flinch away at the insult; as far as she was concerned, she’d done nothing to betray anyone who mattered. Even her little spell cast on Akira had been necessary, if not a little cruel- but he didn’t know her, now. There would be time to amend mistakes later. But for now, she asked with a smile, “Have I?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Kitamura snarled, “You don’t know what you’ve-”

Ema tuned him out. Below his voice was the sharp clatter of shoes against tile, the taste of something ocean-crisp in the air. Ema knew this presence. Ema had hoped she’d never see it again.   

“You’re unnecessary,” said a voice, and Ema knew who that belonged to before Kitamura crumpled to the ground in a heap, clutching with numb fingers the poison needle in his throat. The guards didn’t so much as flinch. Neither did Ema- but she certainly wanted to, when she saw the woman standing behind them, framed elegant by the door, as if she’d stepped out of an illustration in a picture book.

“Ema… That’s the name you’re going by these days, now isn’t it?” said Queen, stalking down the hall with crown perched atop her head, prim and perfect as she’d always been. “Back to the origin of it all. Feeling sentimental?” 

_ That explained it, _ Ema thought. The reason that neither Akira nor Aoi was ruling Sol. The tragedy that had befallen the last Queen Zaizen- stolen away at the hands of a woman that cared not for anything other than herself.

“You framed me,” Ema said, “and you’ve done it again. Over and over. That Crown doesn’t belong to you.”

“Even though I’m letting you share it? You didn’t like my present?” Queen said, gently tapping the back of her own neck, brushing her fingers against dangling ruby earrings. The brand on Ema’s neck burned as she did, and Ema scowled. She’d wondered how Akira had managed to track her down, despite being on the other side of the boundary line. But if Queen had been his source the entire time, then that explained it all.

“I was never going to bring you what you wanted,” Ema replied. 

_ Find Spectre- _ Ema never had any interest in the order, not when it had come from a source that obviously wasn’t Aoi or Akira. Not when the former had done a fine job of seeking him out herself. 

“And isn’t that a shame,” Queen said dryly, “You always did bring me the best of riches.”

And Ema couldn’t even deny it. But that time was long gone, lost to the ages and the flow of time that defied them. Ema was about to open her mouth to protest, to try and convince Queen to abandon whatever game she thought she was playing- but then the order rang out.

It was bright and it was brilliant, and in any life, it was Zaizen Aoi, signaling with royal authority the end of the chaos. Ema let out a small breath- a war game. If three of Hanoi were dead, then that left things in a precarious state- especially with the revelation that Queen was in charge of Sol, now- but they might just make it through.

But Queen didn’t seem worried by the ceasefire at all. She simply glanced at the sky, at the blue sheen like daylight that the stars had taken on, then looked back at Ema.

“Oh,” said Queen, the smile curling across her lips positively deadly, “I believe it’s time for your execution.”

* * *

The angel had killed one of his own. It had been unlike anything Yusaku had ever witnessed before, but Yusaku knew that look- knew it well, the way that angel had faced down death with a resolute determination. Yusaku picked himself back up to his feet, ignoring the chips in his shoulder, the way shattered pieces of him fell from the folds of his cloak.

He stood against Revolver and summoned up the winds, channeling them down into a deadly intent that battered hard against Revolver, intent on tearing him to shreds with the sheer force of it- but it simply bounced off, cut straight through by lines of red. Revolver didn’t so much as turn to Yusaku as he doubled down on his magic. When that too didn’t so much as ruffle his hair Yusaku charged forwards, intent on fighting him in close quarters- but he was stopped halfway by a shield of blue that turned fast to vines, tying themselves tight around his ankles and all but forcing him to a stop.

Yusaku tore through them with sheer force, sensing that Spectre too had arrived again at the battlefield. But just as he did, blue swept across the sky, for just the briefest of moments turning the night to day. Yusaku stopped by a will that wasn’t his own, unable to do so much as brace for Revolver’s blow, for the shot that might not end his life but would certainly stop him from fighting back. 

For a long while, no one spoke to fill the silence that had settled over them heavy as death. Yusaku met Revolver’s gaze across the circuit, glaring daggers and straining against the strange bonds.

“That,” Spectre said, voice smaller than Yusaku would have thought, “marks the start of the war game.”

Revolver huffed- the noise of someone viewing a minor inconvenience, interested only in how it would fall, knowing that it would be in his favor.

“With me,” Revolver said, moving forwards impossibly fast, seizing Yusaku by his shirt collar- and then magic enveloped them all, and they were gone, vanished into something that Yusaku could only call the ether. But the moment before they went, just out of the corner of his eye- Yusaku swore that he saw flames, dancing in the air beside where the angel had died.


	31. XXX [War Game]

In the fabric of the nothingness that made up the space between worlds, there existed something. Yusaku knew not what- only that it was warm, and familiar- it soothed the chips on his shoulder, his hip. He did not fear its presence as it enveloped him soft. In the cracks where this space between bled through to the realities, he saw a distant scene. He was in the graveyard- his graveyard, standing center in a of a row of graves, eyes cast sharp on two intruders- cloaked in matching brown capes, hoods thrown off. A boy and a girl, about his physical age. 

They regarded him with eyes that were unafraid, with postures that refused to bend. They were not aggressive, but they certainly were challenging. They’d hold their ground. He said something; even in his own mind the words weren’t clear. But the reply that came certainly was.

“He says he’s not scared of you,” the girl said, pointing at the white-haired boy that waited behind a grave, a hand resting steadying against it. He was in ill health; even Yusaku, foreign to the concept, could see that.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

The girl replied, perfectly clear, “Because we’re searching for someone. And maybe for something, too.”

The vision began to fade, then, as did the presence that enveloped him. He knew those two- he travelled with one of them now. The other surely awaited their arrival. Like the ebb of a tide did the last of the presence fade, but his magic seemed to run stronger through him than it had just a moment before. He wasn’t about to question it, not when they’d have a war game to fight.

Yusaku blinked, and the world rushed back to him as he was thrown down onto the ground, the hard stone of the ring where the angels had laid down their demands in every life. He tried to reach out, but was struck halfway down with another memory- of turning his back, of allowing them to do as they pleased. They’d cause his graveyard no harm; he’d been certain of that. Lost in the fading seasons, he collided hard with the ground- he had just enough time to turn his head to the side slightly, before his vision went dark, eyes knocked out of place with the impact.

* * *

Aoi refused to flinch as Yusaku’s head slammed into the ground- a few cracks like lightning down the skin appeared over his face, crossing the bridge of his nose, but he lightly tapped the broken pieces back into place. She still bit her cheek at the sound, staring up at Revolver and Spectre instead. She waited a moment, but no other angels arrived. “The terms of the game dictate three versus three. It’s traditional.”

Revolver answered her unmoved. “And shall we break from tradition now? There was no reason for it the first time other than convenience. The Zaizens only had three braves to put forth. If they fought us all, your ancestors knew they’d lose.”

“What are you proposing?” Aoi asked, ignoring the insult as the weight of the Royal Gaze bore down at her back from the balcony. Go’s solid presence down on the ground behind her was yet another reminder. She could make no missteps now, not with the Ignis on her wrist, subdued by brief sparks of her power towards it.

Revolver answered, in a tone that dared Aoi to try and refuse- “Two versus two. A team competition, if you will. The stakes are already drawn out. The winning team takes the Ignis.”

“I have no objections,” Aoi said as Yusaku picked himself up from the ground, aligning himself with her as he pushed his eyes back into their place. She turned to Spectre. “But that demands the last of our agreement comes to an end.”

Spectre met her evenly; it was a gaze that Aoi swore was more familiar than it should have been. “The war game has already begun. I see no reason to hold to the contracts that might have been made beforehand.”

Aoi took a deep breath. There was no such thing as prophecy. Whatever she had dreamed, she thought, feeling the flutter of her white dress around her knees, the wind ruffling through her short hair, unlike the long waves of her dreams- none of it mattered. Sometimes, she thought, a dream was but a dream. “Then we have a war game. One round. Two versus two. The stakes are the Ignis and the sanctity of the Kingdom of Sol. The combatants will be those present on the stage now. Any and all opposed?”

“Princess,” Go said, stepping forwards, “let me-”

But Aoi shook her head. She’d invited this fight; so she would settle it. She turned her head towards Yusaku, who stood firm atop the arena stage, refusing to be moved. He nodded; she turned back to Go. “This is my responsibility. Let me have my fight.”

Go wasn’t happy with her- that much even a blind man could see, even a dead man could sense. But it was her duty. And Yusaku was more durable than any human. The Cemetery had convinced her; he wouldn’t turn on her now. She sent Go a long glance and demanded he understand. Go, after a long, tense moment, backed down. 

On the arena floor, Spectre and Revolver stepped towards the center of the ring. She watched them a moment, wary.

“A handshake,” said Spectre, a lowly amused drawl to his tone. “It is customary, is it not?”

“It is,” Aoi said, then stepped up to take his hand. She knew what was coming before they touched, bracing herself for the strange rush of a memory like a dream slipping through her mind as magic sparked between their hands- but nothing could quite ready her for how real it all felt. It was more visceral than even her dreams, Aoi thought, and she still sometimes woke with the phantom sensation of a hand being plunged through her chest. The vision came and struck her fast- they were together in a small cabin, and she knew the person she stood before well.

 

_ “He’s not right.” _

_ Aoi frowned, crossing her arms and  staring down at Spectre, who sat on the futon, back pressed against the cabin wall. His declaration had been sure. And yet so had his confidence that they’d find the person he was looking for here. “What do you mean, he’s not right? You were so sure…”  _

_ “He’s not the person I’m waiting for. The person I’m waiting for-” Spectre froze, then suddenly doubled over, clutching at his chest, heaving stuttered breaths- like he wanted to take a full one, but his body simply wouldn’t allow it. His hands grasped aimlessly at the fabric of his shirt, reaching with muscle memory for a charm that wasn’t there. Aoi rested a steadying hand on his shoulder and let some of her magic slip freely between them. That always seemed to help steady him, to abate the effects of whatever was eating him away from the inside out. _

_ “We’ll find the one who can save you,” Aoi replied, a reassurance that had begun to feel more hollow every time that she said it. For a little while there was nothing between them save a tiny flow of magic and the silence heavy on their backs, broken only by Spectre’s heaving breaths, then- _

_ “It might,” Spectre replied, finally steadying himself, “be too late.” _

 

Aoi gasped back to the present- just a tiny little breath, not enough to alert anyone but the four of them, standing together in their circle. Spectre narrowed his eyes at her, likely knowing what she’d seen, and obviously not pleased with it- or perhaps with her reaction. 

“Why did I want to save you?” Aoi asked lowly, knowing she would receive no answer. Spectre had yet to tell her anything of importance. 

“I do wonder,” Spectre replied, unhelpful as she thought he’d be. He dropped her hand; they stepped back to their respective corners of the circuit. Beside them, Yusaku and Revolver did the same- one of them in each of the four corners, a strange arrangement. Aoi cast a long gaze around the arena- Yusaku on the corner to her right, Spectre towards her left, and Revolver directly diagonal.

“On the King’s signal!” Aoi yelled out, looking up towards the balcony cast in shadow. She suppressed a shiver at the Royal Guards placed on either side of the balcony, clutching her hands and hoping- but knowing well otherwise- that things would not be so easily resolved after the war game. 

Aoi caught a flutter of motion in the balcony- not where she’d expected that it would come from, something that looked like a flash of silver down near the bottom of the it, a person caught in motion- but she had no time to confirm, because the signal rang out over them as a green barrier rose up between the four pillars, trapping the combatants inside. 

It was the signal of war; Aoi wasted no time in clapping her hands together and drawing out her whip, sparking with her magic in a beautiful blue. Spectre too wasted no time- as the winds kicked up around their feet, as Revolver declared with a rush of power unlike anything that Aoi had ever felt that this was a battle of  _ destiny _ \- Spectre brushed fingertips against the curve of one of his wings and came away with a blade, a rapier gleaming blue beneath the silver wood of it. 

_ Why was I trying to save you? _ Aoi thought, because surely that had been reality. If in one life she had been Blue Angel, and in one life she had lived in a graveyard, then what was to say there wasn’t a life where she’d tried to save her greatest enemy? She asked again- “Why?”

“Do,” Spectre replied, brandishing the rapier at her, “try and save me again. You may find out, this time.”

There was no time to waste- on the other side of the circuit ring Yusaku and Revolver’s magic crashed into each other, forcing Aoi to snap the fingers on her left hand, manipulating the magic there to form a shield back on her right. It wasn’t the neatest bit of shielding she’d ever made, nor was it the sturdiest, but it would have to suffice. Spectre stepped towards her, vanishing as he did, but Aoi remembered that trick- he could never hide from her. Not after they’d travelled though the void so many times together. She whirled in place and lashed out with her whip, flicking her wrist and trusting her instincts. 

Aoi’s whip struck true, and she threw all the power she had into the impact, intending to end things then and there. She pulled on that wellspring and threw everything at it, determined to bleed it dry if she had to, just for that one moment of power. It lashed hard against Spectre’s shoulder, and she pulled it back quickly, bracing for a retaliating blow that didn’t come. 

She’d struck his right arm, his sword arm- with his left he clutched at it, glancing down at the limb hanging by threads as if it were a minor inconvenience, rather than a grievous wound. He didn’t look worried.

He didn’t even look  _ pained. _

“You aren’t an angel,” she said, taking a step backwards, and Spectre smiled at her, holding his arm back to his shoulder and looking utterly unbothered by pain that would have a mortal man on the ground, succumbing to shock.

“I  _ was _ wondering when you’d finally realize,” Spectre said dryly. The wings on his back glowed with gentle light, soft vines that wrapped around his arm and stitched it back together, cleaning up the small crystals of blue like half-coagulated blood and stitching them back inside before disappearing, leaving Spectre whole again. He took a step forwards and his presence surged towards her with a speed that no human could possess. 

Aoi leapt back, propelled by the magic still burning through her- but still she barely managed to slip to the side of Spectre’s blade, the tip of it catching along her sleeve. If she’d been a moment slower, then perhaps it would have slid neatly through her ribs.

“Hey, hey, keep your guard up!” said the Ignis, having shaken off the last pulse of her magic and regained its ability, apparently, to speak. Aoi tried not to let it distract her. Spectre moved almost faster than she could keep up with- every time he disappeared, it felt as if she had to rally her magic to find him again, to try and strike out and dodge right before he could land a blow that would kill her. 

There was no mercy in it- Aoi couldn’t so much as glance Yusaku’s direction, nevermind spare the energy to try and help him fight against whatever creeping  _ wrongness _ seeped from Revolver. But that, she found, was her mistake- a blast of that terrible energy suddenly shot towards her, and she threw her energy into a shield with everything she had just as Spectre disappeared again. By the time the Ignis yelled up at her, salvaging her split attention-  _ above! _ \- it was already too late. She threw her shield upwards with a sweep of her hand, defending against the point of Spectre’s rapier, but the force of him descending threw her down. Her back hit hard against the ground, the breath knocked out of her with the impact. Her shield shattered, and her bangles along with them. Her last line of defense-

Spectre stood above her with blade pointed down at her heart. One wrong move, and she’d be dead.

It was the scene from the dream.

Deja vu.

But no, Aoi wouldn’t allow that. There was no such thing as destiny, no matter what Revolver seemed to believe. Aoi glared up at him and tugged still for her magic, fading away from her with an urgency that she couldn’t control, running parallel to her commands. 

“Revolver,” Spectre called, but Aoi didn’t dare move her head to check where Revolver had gone. His magic swelled overwhelming over the field, choking Aoi in the scent of something rotten and decayed. Spectre continued, betraying nothing, “I’ve secured the Ignis.”

“Destroy it,” Revolver ordered; and Spectre’s eyes widened just a moment in surprise for the order before reaching down a hand, doubtless to comply. Aoi stared up at Spectre and did not fear the blade moving towards her throat, the shattered pieces of her bangles, the way she felt her magic slowly being drained away from her. 

“I won’t let you do that,” she breathed, triumphant. Spectre’s expression was positively scathing.

“Really? And what’s left for you to do, Your Highness?”

Aoi smiled. “This.”

She called; Holly flew up through the barrier in a burst of blue light and shattered before Spectre’s face in a burst that had him reeling back just a moment, stepping back from where he loomed over her. It was just a moment, but it was enough. Aoi no longer any choice- she all but ripped the gauntlet off her arm and threw it to Yusaku.

“Catch!” she had just enough time to yell before the point of the rapier blade was coming down at her throat, driven down with intent to kill. Aoi had no more time to think- she kept her eyes open wide, pulled up every bit of magic she had, and gave in to the impulse roaring through her beating heart.

* * *

Revolver was unlike any enemy that Yusaku had ever fought. What they were supposed to be fighting was a team fight; the truth of it was that the powers of the individual angels kept their hands full without a moment to worry

And then came Aoi’s cry- Yusaku had no time to turn towards it before he reached a hand out instinctive to catch the gauntlet flung at him, the Ignis crying out in alarm. The Ignis landed in his hands, and Yusaku slipped it onto his wrist in the brief moment of reprieve he had as he doubled down on his winds. 

“Oh good,” the Ignis said, “It’s you. Listen, you’ve gotta let me have your power.” 

“I’m not giving you anything,” he told the Ignis plainly, throwing another gust towards Revolver, gritting his teeth and aggravating the faint cracks still over his skin when Revolver weathered them without so much as a cut against his skin. Yusaku leapt out of the way of his counterattack, shards of mirrors left shattering at his feet.

The Ignis continued, frantic, eye rolling in its makeshift socket, “No, listen! You have to let me have it! Ghost Girl told me. You’re looking for Jin, right? Kusanagi Jin!” 

“What do you know about Jin?” Yusaku asked, gaze snapping down to the gauntlet, dodging the next fragments of mirror with a series of swift sidesteps that brought him dangerously close to the strange reflections cutting past his hair.

“He’s in this city! Listen, just let me-” but Yusaku never heard the end of the Ignis’ sentence. He’d let himself get distracted. The mirror shards he hadn’t seen coming, made invisible by some trick of the green barrier light struck through his chest, his arms, his legs. Yusaku staggered, and fought off the strange wave that crashed over his head, fogging his thoughts. There were holes in him then, perfect matches to the ones in his head. As he moved, dodging out of the way of Revolver’s third barrage and summoning up his winds to deter another one, dust fell from him, pieces of his body falling and shattering against the stone.

“Let me tell you something, Playmaker!” Revolver yelled above the winds. It didn’t sound as if he was straining his voice at all. “Nothing you seek is the truth. The humanity you want to regain is meaningless.”

“It’s not meaningless,” Yusaku said, and took a step closer to Revolver despite the Ignis’ loud protests on his arm. “You turned me into this. You can fix things. Everything is a cycle. All you have to do is reverse it.”

Revolver laughed. “You don’t believe in that, do you?” But his words weren’t quite as self-assured as before. Not until he smirked, and added, words heavier than any weapon- “Well, it doesn’t matter. Whether it’s possible or not… You were never human to begin with.”

“You’re lying,” Yusaku spat. He had no memory of it, but he was certain. It wasn’t an idea that had been planted in his head, somewhere along the way and forgotten as thoughts slipped from him like water through his palms. He knew it in his bones, certain as his own self. Revolver was trying to unnerve him, nothing more.

“I’ll give you three reasons why I’m not.”

Yusaku hesitated. Revolver continued on unaware- or perhaps perfectly aware, and relishing in the way Yusaku’s resistance began to falter involuntarily. It felt as if he was losing himself- as if whatever had come to strengthen him in the void was coming to unravel him piece by piece, and Yusaku couldn’t find a single thing to latch on to.

“First. I was present for the experiment that created you a millennia ago. There was no human with your name, or soul, or whatever else you think you can quantify your empty self with.”

Yusaku snarled and pulled back his winds a moment before attacking any sign of weakness in Revolver’s invisible defense. Revolver himself didn’t seem bothered, only took a single step forwards. “Second. The person who told you that was likely Kusanagi Shoichi. His only interest is in Jin. Whatever he’s told you, it’s likely only an attempt to keep taking advantage of your power. After all. That man is but a human. He can’t face us on his own. He’s known that as long as he’s been alive. Do you truly think your meeting was a coincidence?”

Yusaku’s winds began swirling out of his control a vortex that had even Spectre and Aoi’s magic bracing against it, the two of them exchanging blows so similar they might as well have been the same in Yusaku’s senses. He was falling apart, with nowhere steady to anchor himself-

No. There was one thing. 

“Third,” Revolver said, and the word struck something inside Yusaku, cut apart a seam of him he hadn’t known existed until just that moment- “I tried to negotiate terms with you before it ever came to this, Playmaker. If you had listened, perhaps you could have at least saved Jin.”

- _ Hey. You.- _

Yusaku staggered. The weight in his head was immense, the pressure trying to burst out, blurring his vision in a way he didn’t understand- down to shapes and splotches of color and the vague sense of motion. In his mind there was a vague memory, stirred up by the plugs for the holes he was only just beginning to realize might never have been holes at all. Golden fields. A hand in his- warm as the sunset slipping down behind the mountainside. 

Yusaku couldn’t see. He took a step, and felt himself start to crumble, the holes the mirror shards had made widening impossibly.

In his mind- a hand in his. Three things. Death and fire and a chessboard and the very end of it all, three flames burning bright beneath the wings of another.

“Yusaku!”

A familiar voice, yelling out his name as the world rushed back to him in a blurry haze- he was staring down the barrel of a revolver. He managed- or at least he thought he did, staring up into the blurs that were the light from Revolver’s eyes- “I remember that, too.”

Revolver shot. The last thing Yusaku felt before his world gave way to darkness was pain, water thrown over the hot coals of a fire, sizzling out-

The last thing he felt, Yusaku thought, was  _ pain. _

* * *

Perched atop the Palace roof, hidden well behind a decorative angel whose hands were clasped in prayer, tears running down her cheeks in blue, a boy with scarlet scarf around his neck peered down into the courtyard, squinting his eyes at the atrocious sight. Blue and black and blue again, and not a single one of them whole. And then  _ that- _

He didn’t know what to call that, other than an abomination that was far above what he was qualified to handle. Not that the idea of swooping in as a hero wasn’t appealing- but that wasn’t the job he’d been sent here to handle. 

“Looks like it’s our turn to clean things up again, huh?” he muttered, and the gauntlet on his wrist hummed, red eye flicking towards the chaos. The Sentinels were closing in, the fight was over. It was the start of the end of the world.  

“Indeed.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” he said, watching as the final blow came down in the form of a shot that sent every part of his being wanting to scatter, to head straight back to the realm from which he’d come, “how bad do you think this is about to get?”

“Your scale is quite limited in scope,” replied his gauntlet, and the boy groaned as he lifted his arm to stare down at it. 

“Okay, fine. One to one-hundred, then.”

“Seventy-eight.”

“That’s pretty low, isn’t it?”

“That’s an acceptable level of difficulty for you to handle,” came the reply, and if he wasn’t literally stuck with this gauntlet on his arm, he would have torn it off then and there. How long had they been partners for, exactly? How many missions had they run together? But he didn’t have time to count the centuries.

As the clearing below burst into chaos- the Princess dragged away by the hand, the Queen with a knife in her side, the Ignis vanishing as the weight of a flashback closed in- the boy pushed himself to his feet, slipping down to the very edge of the roof. Unseen to anyone, a small patch of black flame floated up from the shattered boy, coming to rest soft in the newcomer’s gloved palm. Dark red veins ate away at it, warring with it at its very source. It would win, of course- no soul had the power to stand against an emissary of death and their plague.

The flame was pathetic- really and truly a newborn thing. Or rather, he thought, something that had never been allowed to grow, stunted from its inception.

“Sorry,” he said, stoking it back to life with a burst of magic that burned away the air in his lungs to set the black fire ablaze again, banishing away the kiss of death, “But you’re not allowed to die here, Fujiki Yusaku. Or, I’m not allowed to let you die. The real fight’s just getting started, you know? And besides. I might already be dead, but Jin would kill me if I extinguished you here.”

The boy glanced down at the clearing below, then cradled the soul in his hands and said, addressing all those who couldn’t hear with a yell that he couldn’t help but hope reached anyway- “So live! And fight! And see you all on the other side!”

The boy stepped off the roof- and vanished there, burning up in a ray of sunlight as the dawn broke over the horizon. There were no more rules, now- but plenty of heroes. And, he thought, as he slipped through the void towards Kusanagi Jin- maybe it was finally their turn to play hero, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of this fic and the midpoint of the story!! Thank you again and again to C for putting up with my incessant "HELP ME" calls and doing a bunch of beta work especially around the middle of the fic, and of course of course of course bek who made the most stunning art I could have ever imagined for this story! I'm still speechless every time I look at it ;; 
> 
> And, as always- thank you for reading!!


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